the scene he finds in the days following envy's disappearance is chaotic, an amalgam of blood and strewn fur. he picks out his master's scent easily among the fray, reads her story— finds her overwhelmed and outmatched. hawthornn is sent fleeing— and envy leaves unwillingly with a group who stink of blood gore and sex.

days later, asvardr follows the trail still, a moth to a flickering flame. parts his jaws like a snake, inhaling. one ragged ear twitches, and he straightens with a soft chuff. the man— no, the boy who stands before him smells of them. not of his master, but of the men and women who stole her away. excitement gnaws like a starving animal at his ribcage.

he grunts, drops a ragged tuft of silver fur from between his jaws. it stinks of envy, even after so long away from her— sweet mayflower and carrion and, distantly, him.

he grunts again, kicks at the tangled object with his foot and gives the stranger a firm look. go. lead me to her. he will go willingly as a prize if he must, a prisoner of war, if only to find his way back to her.

irritation swims in his gut, calcifying the longer the fool boy chooses to ramble. of all the half-witted, empty-headed lunatics to run into— he just had to find the one with no information to offer.

even still, he remains stone-faced. after a moment he grunts again, gesturing with his head for the boy to move along. if he cannot say just where envy is, then asvardr will travel to the heart— to the encampment where the blood-drinkers make their home. and he will go as a pet, if he must— though he now doubts this one has half the mind to demand such a thing.

a blank, drug-induced stare meets him next, and asvardr exhales sharply through his nose. he gives the boy a nudge with his muzzle and chuffs, frustration evident in the ridge of dark fur along his spine.

but how to make him see?

persistence will have to do. he bumps the boy's flank and grunts, tossing his head.

move. move and i will follow.

ah. persistence is nothing in the face of unbridled stupidity, it seems. but this is perhaps his only chance at finding her, and he will not let it slip away from him— not even if he has to tolerate this fucker's incessant babbling for a week.

oh, lord, he hopes it doesn't take a week.

the boy dances jubilantly away from him, and the hound is unfortunately inclined to follow. he lopes after with his head low, single eye shining. at the very least, calyx has at long last chosen a direction in which to wander.

and off the two of them wander— perhaps toward doom.

impulse has never guided him. he is a beast of habit, of routine— so perhaps it is corruption which guides his heart to obey. he pins the satchel with one paw, curiously spilling its contents out and onto the earth.

a bittersweet scent emanates from it, one that makes his mouth water. oh, he has always been a man of many vices. what's one more? he takes a stem into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, wincing at the taste.

a brusque shove with his paw and the bundle goes hurtling back toward calyx, sans one stem.