The huntress in Ember, the one that has been slowly trained to be part of the pack, knows that the turning of the wind will be her ally. Not all hunts are carried out by stealth. She can almost hear Taurus in her ear, telling her that she needs to be ready to run just fast enough to keep Mosaic at her heels, which is to say, as fast as she can run. You run to the pack, you pull the apex predator into the net, you have to just look like you're incompetent, do you think you can do that, Ember?

But that's an almost. Her treachery is in her instincts, and it will betray Mosaic, because her thought is on a silver leash of moonlight. Her chin sinks into her palms as she watches from the nearby outcropping, her tail wagging uselessly behind her, as she drinks in the moon and the night intermingled on Mosaic's back. Her own strength's all lean and quick; she's the wiry runt, but she's got a rabbit's own feet. But Mosaic reminds her of a statue. (Maybe one with four arms?) Her decadent softness, her curves, swallow up the moonlight and beg for more. Sweat shines on her marble skin, each bead as precious as ambergris.

When the demigod lunges, cracks open a leg, exposes the scent of the soft white meat within, Ember rolls over, yanked on that silver leash. Upside-down, she watches the constellation of the Huntress do battle with Iolaus's Bane, a titan striding across the star-choked beach. Her toes curl on the rough-textured rock, and her breath hitches as her lover strives underneath the gaze of the gods. She can look. She's allowed to look. Why is that thought so breathtaking? That she is free to look, and lust, and to admire the perfection of the finest artwork that the gods ever shaped, the daughter of a mountain and a moonbeam?

Whatever did she do, little runt of the pack, to deserve the bedroom laughter and the gentle fingers of this apex predator, this slayer of crabs, this vision in shifting white and black?