The scent of blood is thick and heavy in the air, and Lauralae is basking in it, a strange familiarity warring with her own comfort in this strange place. She is used to the feel of it on her tongue, the stain on her teeth, but it is new and novel that it is the flesh of a human that has come to her rather than that of an animal, crushed between wolfish teeth.

It is glutton, excess, too much, begging to be torn asunder and have the magics undone, but she is less captivated by that and more interested in the familiar voice in her mind, slipping in there as if it belongs. It's as if her mind itself is a little warm home for Armand's touch, and she turns her dark eyes to him, pushing herself up.

If it was anyone else, someone unfamiliar, she would riot over the touch, furious with anger at the idea of being summoned, of magic being used to whisper into her very mind, but her awareness of Armand makes it easier. She goes to him, dressed carefully, arms as covered as they were when they first met, hovering in front of him with a tilted head.