@patiencethinâ
Humans are all different. Some rise early, some stay up with the night. She has known immortals who look warily or contemptuously onto them, but no matter what face humanity turns to her, she has never found it in her to resent them. Foolish, cruel, petty- gods and spirits have been the same, no matter how they claim to the contrary.
She has always been a sort that does not speak, unusual among her shining kin. But she thinks- privately- that there is an awful lot some spirits miss out on by talking too much- or demanding their words fall only on the shining bastions of shrines and holy places. She does not resent them either. But she finds it imperative to venture out of oneâs comfort zone. Particularly if one has not done so for centuries.
It is the scent of blood that leads her here, old and new, mixed and intermingled. Deep in the body of this city, in the sections of Fibonacci ward where the sun is blotted out by the platforms and cities above it. Here, wilted plants barely are able to lift their heads at her passage; it is not a place for a god, perhaps, but it is these sorts of places a god is needed, even if it is the strangest place to find a wolf. She acts, as always, as if she has every right to be here; pads with untroubled certainty among the streets. The white of her coat throws back the electrical lighting, and she seems (ha. seems) to glow.
That smell. Where is it coming from?
