She does not hear the howl. Her ears lift up atop her head, but she does not hear the howl. Her eyes alight with desire and her teeth flash bright against the backdrop of the night sky, but she does not hear the howl. Her hands are full of crab. Her back is full of the sea. She does not hear the howl. 

No, she hears the hunt. She hears the hand of Artemis reaching from behind her, the ruffling of a jacket sleeve against a silk button down, the susurrus of skin on skin, of fingers brushing her chin and lifting her head away from her kill to stare across the beach instead. A half-annoyed sigh and a half-amused snort. The slightest of creakings and barest shift in the winds that indicate a shrug. 

Ahhhhhhhh. She hears the sigh leave her own throat. She hears her heart pulsing faster and faster. She hears the sand sloughing off of her toes as she lifts them out of the waves. She does not hear the howl. She does not need to. She already lives inside of it.

So then, this is not an act of sacrilege. So then, this is not a wasted kill. It is a sacrifice. The itch on her skin is dulling with every passing breath. The name, the promise, is fading. This last and greatest enemy will be hers to prepare as a feast. But it is for the goddess Artemis to have, to keep, and to move as she will. She has already accepted it. And the reward she offers for such a pleasing dedication is a new hunt.

Someone has seen her bathing under moonlight. There are prices to be paid for such things, little wolf. 

Mosaic does not cross the distance between herself and Ember. She sniffs, and the distances ceases to be. Her shoulders blot out the moon. Her blood perfumes the sea airs. Her breasts hang in the air like the unpluckable fruits that damned Tantalus. Her smirk could doom far greater heroes than that.

"What game are we playing today, my Heart? Will you flee and make sport for me, or shall I take you right here for your little pack to finally see? I allow them their games with you. Just as I allow them to call my sister their own. But [i]you,[/i] Ember. Precious Ember. You are [i]mine.[/i] Mine to hunt and mine to take. How. Ev. Er. I. Wish~"

Her fingers reach for the buckles on that absurd Diver's armor. But just enough hesitation, or rather gentleness, to allow room for another game to be played. If Ember can resist the sight and sound of the invitation right in front of her.