Litha needn't have fretted over finding Blackthorne for it seemed some eldritch sense had alerted him to her presence. As he lay stretched before the den shared with sister and mother his ears had perked up and his head had swiveled around, nose lifting to the wind as if searching for a phantom scent. "What is it?" Natiya's musical voice asks him calmly and his eyes snap to her, ordering her to stay put without answering. In return he is given an obedient nod as she sits delicately in their meadow and watches him pad away, a breeze ruffling his coarse fur.

It is a second sense much like the Shade that his father had preached to him about. At times he had begun to wonder that Underidge might not be a liar for he saw the way the shadows danced between the silver males fur, like a living creature living within him. Yet he did not agree, inside, to host such a thing. Let his father be driven by this god, let him be a follower. Blackthorne was a leader and he would follow no divine spirit. He would pave his own way and become his own god, although he liked the idea of demons. Yes, he would be a demon.

She is like a swift shadow but even she cannot hide amongst the last bit of snow that still clutches eagerly in piles against the trees. He catches sight of her before long, his own inward sense easing at seeing her as if to say 'Ah! You finally located the disturbance!' He stands proud then, his body larger now than it had been and a calculated look on his two toned face. "Litha," he intones, his voice gruff but also burgeoning on a new slyness for as he aged it had begun to change and evolve.