AW! spooky stuff...

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When night falls throughout the bayou, the swamp comes alive. Harmonious wails of spirits of old and new carried by air of rot; there isn't a night that passes where Paimon isn't haunted by 'em. But tonight...oh, they sing. It's all he can hear, as the dark is heralded by a moon blood-red. Its light creeps through vines and weeds, painting the ground red, bathing the dark waters in its crimson wake.

They're hungry. They stir, they haunt, they crave. Their shadows linger in his peripherals, their hands reaching for his feet as he found a clearing to bathe himself in the light of the blood moon. His skin crawls as their moans and cries grate his nerves. Something vile, something evil stirred within his chest as he meticulously spread out bones with carved veve on their rotted surface.

His one eye catches the red of the moon; it glows with something rotten as the pentagram of bone is finished. Bile rose to his throat, and he swallowed it back down with a grimace as it felt like a serpent weaved beneath his flesh, just above his muscle. When his maw parts, the stench of sin followed.

Ain't it glorious, Paimon? A voice of deep old and evil sounded by his ear, followed by a hollow chuckle, a grind of bone. His jaw set, his eye falling to the shard of bone he pricked one of his toes with. Ichor pooled, and in its reflection, he sees Him.

The rot he'd sold his soul to all those years ago. The beast who won't let him be kissed by the sweet release of death.

Don't want nothin' from yous tonight, Gede. He rasped. In that reflection of blood, he's met with a wicked smile.

You know what I want, boy. 'S my time to feast. Lemme in, Paimon...gimme my control.

An eerie sky of red greeted the man as he stirred from beneath a light layer of fallen leaves. He expected to feel the rake and lash of flames upon his skin again- but was shocked to be met instead by a breeze, cool and humid. He drew in a breath, and his body- remembering only the choke of smoke- shuddered when he was given instead a draw of air that was marshy but clear. Like a mist he lifted slowly and carefully, biting back a groan at the stinging in his paws and the creasing of burnt, but healing flesh. Every movement was careful as he turned and twisted to assess the damage, muttering notes to himself that made him feel more and more bewildered as he discovered that he had not only survived the wildfire, but that the wounds he'd sustained had not only been topical, but nearly healed.

It was impossible; unless his memory was to blame. Some healer might have taken pity on him and set to work after he'd passed out, though getting him out from beneath the fallen tree must have been a struggle. The first emotion that came to him, at that realization, wasn't gratitude but shame. Guilt followed like an obedient shadow and after it, grief.

He moved like a dandelion seed on dead air; carefully, slowly. There was weakness in his limbs, and pain in his lower back- but it was manageable, and would be quite easy for him to continue to treat, he thought, once he found his lair of medicines. Whoever it was that had rescued him must have dragged him some distance- this area didn't look familiar at all.

No- it was all strange, save for one thing- for a fleeting moment, beneath the crimson moon, he caught a glint of blue. Morpho.

Morpho he would be.

A stranger loomed in the distance. Morpho struggled to find anything familiar about his scent, determining him to be unknown. Still, he's the only wolf in sight.

"Was it you?" He asked across the distance, his question lingering until he declared, with a light tinge of remorse. "Who healed me?"