[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/vDOqGRW.png[/img][/center]
The morning sun caressed the green carpet of trees in the Paro valley, some three-thousand feet below the Taktsang Palphug Monastery. The ancient complex stood beautifully upon the precipice of its granite pedestal, greeting the coming day with a splendor and reverence few man-made structures could achieve. 

In the cool, still air, the spicy notes of long-burning incense lingered, coalescing with the pleasant mustiness of ancient stone and lacquered wood. The rich smells were accompanied by the sounds of songbirds, the light tinkling of wind bells, the ghostly flutter of prayer flags, and the muffled chants of the Buddhist monks from within the main hall of the monastery.

It was to all of this simple grandeur that Atticus Mac Cleírich greeted the promise of the morn. In a high room of the monastery, the incubus walked out upon the small balcony, and took in all there was to see. The clear mountain sky seemed so pure and bereft of blemish, as if it were being focused by the lens of some divine being, and made to achieve some ethereal level of purity. 

Atticus stood in a simple outfit of gray rough-spun linen, and brought the small cup of sweetened milk tea to his lips as he appraised the world around him. With the warm liquid cascading over his tongue, a soft smile came to the demon’s bearded face, and his eyes closed in contemplative satisfaction.

In the year that had passed since Fenrir’s fall, it was mornings like these that had helped to coax peace and hope back into Atticus’ infernal heart. The world, it seemed, was indeed carrying on despite the best efforts of the god of destruction. Even in the face of all the grave sacrifices needed to achieve that end, Atticus finally felt at ease with it all. There was no satisfaction in regret, and no harmony in despising the cast die of fate.

Finishing his tea, a pleasant idea came to Atticus. He retrieved a small walnut lap desk from within the simple confines of his room, along with parchment, and an ancient ink well and pen. Sitting down upon the smooth wood of the balcony, Atticus set to writing. 

Over a year’s worth of thoughts and experiences flowed through Atticus’ pen as he wrote a letter to every single one of his comrades that had survived the final wrath of the god-wolf. He told them of his feelings for them, how much he missed their company, and how much he appreciated all they had sacrificed for all the world. Atticus wrote of his time lost in the mountains, of all that that he had found and achieved, both personally and universally. He left nothing out, hoping to leave a true piece of himself with each and every stroke of his pen.

The next several hours were passed in this way, until at last each letter was folded, sealed with black wax, and embossed with a large ‘AM’ monogram. One at a time Atticus took the letters and sent them away to their addressees in a puff of dark smoke, sparks, and brimstone. A smirk came to his face as he envisioned the surprise of each of the recipients, starting at the appearance of a letter out of thin air before their eyes. He very much enjoyed the many adaptations of his new powers.

With his work finished, Atticus set the lap desk aside, and leaned back against the old wood of the balcony’s railing. He regarded the sky above again, and let out a contented sigh. Several long minutes came and went, seeing the incubus sitting in silent enjoyment of the moment, wholly satisfied with the time and space in which he occupied. 

His reverie was broken by the sound of a richly accented, and beautifully feminine voice. 

“Good morning, Atticus.”

The incubus smiled, and turned his head to peer back into the relative darkness of the room. His golden eyes flared with delight, and he breathed a breath of delicious fulfilment.

“Good morning, [i]petit prédateur[/i]” Atticus said. He stood and walked into the room, stepping to the tiny, resplendent vampire, and encircled her in his arms. His eyebrow arched as he looked down into her large and doll-like eyes. “What do you think, my dear? Is the world ready for our return?”

Nastasiya Pavlenko looked back up to Atticus, and offered him a devilishly salacious smile before standing on her tip toes to press her full lips against his own. When she broke away, the glint in her eyes rivaled the glow of even Atticus’ bright pupils. 

“Not just yet.”
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/vDOqGRW.png[/img][/center]