Even half a year ago, she thinks she might have been nervous about this, about this part of her being something to really share. But her mortals, and her warlock, are entirely too extraordinary for her to deny this to herself.

So she kisses them, each of them, soundly, and starts off through the woods. Her feet would find the path even without magic, and she's chosen one that's winding and easy, but not without glimpses of a bubbling stream or particularly bent and gnarled tree, some night-blooming flowers that can't be natural.

She can feel the call of magic, and tonight, Night doesn't seem like a stark, black and white and bloody affair. It's deep and calm, the velvety dark shot through with silver moonlight.