He was matesprit and moirail, he was kismesis and auspice. He was all, and neither, and none. Their love was a love like no other.

Now, as the Disciple sits alone in this dark cave, she curses Darkleer for saving her. It was a sudden surge of pity that Darkleer felt for her, but pity she could not return, for the Disciple's quadrants had long been filled by one man, and, her lover slain, she vowed never to love again.

She has shed all her tears for the night. There will be many more tomorrow. The corpse of her lover lays beside her in the cold, dark cave. His body propped up by rocks, his beautiful blood, bright red even in death, drips steadily into the bowls laid out beneath.

She has gutted him; his innards are carefully placed to the side. He suffered a gut wound before death, and she does not want the meat to spoil for it.

Before she was the Disciple, she was Meulin Leijon. Meulin, who grew up in the wilds of Alternia and was taught by her lusus the ways of the Hunt. Civilized trolls called her feral and savage, but Meulin knew it was they who were savages. They who killed for sport, who imposed laws against what was good and natural. They who failed to honor the fallen dared to call themselves civilized?

In the Hunt, there is honor. What is killed must be eaten. To eat is to become one with the eaten. To waste the flesh of the kill is to dishonor the sacrifice the prey made so that the hunter could live. Her love will not be dishonored.

To Darkleer she had said, when he brought her the body, "It was you who killed my beloved. It is your right to partake of his blood and flesh."

Darkleer had not understood. "My lady, I bring you the Signless so that you may offer him burial or funeral pyre as is your right as his quadrantmate," he had said. "He was a great troll in his own way, and it would not do to see his body so… desecrated."

"Agreed. I will bury him within me. I will burn his flesh for fuel. My breath shall be his breath. For as long as I shall live, we are one."

And so Darkleer had fled, in fear and confusion. Once upon a time, when the Disciple was still Meulin, she might have found it in her to pity a man such as he - one who had been so twisted by the oppressive teachings of society that he could not see that her way, the path of the Hunt, was not deviant.

But she is Meulin no longer.

The Disciple sits beside her beloved. His blood drips slower and slower, almost out. With her claws, she carefully cuts a chunk out of a sculpted thigh, still so beautiful to her. She remembers just days before, as they made love, his beautiful thighs wrapped 'round hers.

She bites into the small piece of flesh, the first of many. The rich taste of him floods her mouth and she lets out a mournful wail. Her lips stained red, her cheeks stained green with the tears she thought she was done shedding, if only for tonight. Each bite she takes is accompanied by a sob. It feels like forever before she is done with just this one small piece, barely the size of her palm.

She cries. She gathers the bowls. She cries.

And she writes. On the walls of the cave, the First Sermon of the Signless is laid down in his own blood.