Ring around the rosy…
…pocket full of poesies…
…ashes, ashes…
We all fall…
…down…
Cain jerks upright from his bed at the sung whisper, unable to tell if it had been in his head or somewhere close by. Part of him fears it may have been both as he looks around the chamber. The first in a very long time the Singer of Songs feels a telling chill run down his spine at what the ghostly rhyme entails. Though he has not fed since the night before, his heart pounds in his chest like a brass gong making his mouth run dry like a great desert.
He takes a moment to get himself under control, his attention shifts away from what he can see towards his other senses. The stink of his lovers rides at the surface within the room as the most recent scent. At his side, Isolde turns in her sleep with the kiss of sweat still upon her body mingling with the malodorous remnants of his copious seed. Her breathing is deep and long in the manner of someone well into a decent slumber. Unaware of the cold sensation filling the pit of her Master’ stomach she reaches across to him in her sleep, delicate fingers gently stroking his bare thigh in her normal way with a contented moan.
Beyond her comes the soft wafting taste of copper from the numerous deep scratches along Samson’s chest and back endured beneath Cain and above Isolde. His wounds long since healed are no more than barely visible pink lines along his tanned flesh. Sensing the unusual duress within his master, the lycanthrope lifts his head from Isolde’ lush breasts at the understanding of that which makes Cain worry should be a worry to everyone.
“What comes our way?” Samson asks in a concern laced voice.
Not ready just yet to offer his endowed companion a response, Cain turns his senses from their chambers, to the hall beyond their door only to find nothing. No trace of anything making its way away from their door. That alone brings deeper lines upon his pale brow. “Not what comes, but what has all ready came.” He responds cryptically as he slips from the bed.
The cold radiating from the stone floor is a welcome sensation as he strides calmly towards the door. The jagged lines of his bare skin move with close to a dancer’ grace as he steps into the hall, first looking one way and then the other. Frowning deeper, he clicks his tongue thoughtfully before turning to look at Samson from the doorway.
“Open one of the heavy curtains, but just enough for you to look outside.” He orders Samson without much regard to the fact that he is still bared to the world.
With care the wolf extracts himself from their human lover to make his way to the closest curtain. Thick fingers ease the fabric aside enough to look out where he freezes in place and turns wide eyes upon Cain. “Master Romulus…tis’ mid-day!”
“My dear Samson, the game is afoot…” he says while shutting the door and moving around the room as but a white blur of motion gathering his clothing. “Pour our voluptuous Isolde a hot bath, and then wake her. You’ve both endured my appetites for some time now, you have leave to return to your kith and kin. But remember, you belong to me. Mind. Body. And soul. Mostly body.”
Without another word Cain leaves them both making his way for the library, hoping the curtains were not open otherwise his day would be vastly difficult indeed. The sun riding high in the sky, it should have been impossible that he be able to wake this early. Something was vastly wrong within the Valley…or ill winds blew once more.
