Beltane had no shame in calling for him. She had thought long and hard for several days about him, unable to shake him from her mind. He had slipped into her thoughts at the coming of the new moon, the sheer darkness of the night permitting her glances of him in the folds of shadows that swallowed up the swamps. It only made sense to see it as a sign, an omen that she ought to find that strange man she had found in the shimmering in-between world they both seemed to move through. Since the blood moon seasons ago, she had felt different. It all seemed to lead to that stranger, that omen.

Perhaps it was odd to see her move so confidently (though she could never escape the inevitable twitch in her shoulder or sudden retraction of a paw, as if stung by the ground), her mind seemingly set on one singular task rather than its usual drifting. Yet, there she was. She moved in the dim light of dusk, the golden light pouring over the stones of the grotto before being swallowed by the darkness below; she moved along its edges, captivated by the nothingness below. It seemed, she thought, like the best place to summon him; below her, there were years of bones, stories, ancient stone and energy. Beltane could practically feel the electricity just beneath her skin, a river of her own.

She paused atop the gaping maw that lead to the world below; she stood tall, ear back as she listened to the wind whistle and whisper behind her. She stared into the coming night, her skin giving a shiver before she let out a low, drawling call that only he would surely understand.