They call it the Gift of Song when they’re feeling lyrical and the Bloodgift when they’re not. It’s the ritual incorporation of the Huntsman into the Pack, and the Pack into the world; an offering of blood from man to dog and dog to man… only these days they’ve stooped to taking what wasn’t offered and give nothing in return. It’s a broken link, hobbled by the cynicism of immortality.

The Huntsman’s blood binds the Hounds to the world, lets them carryout their divine geas. Willing or not, he’s their anchor into reality for as long as he lives.

Their blood would pull him away from reality, lengthen his life, enhance his senses, and –like the Huntsman his great-great-grandmother wooed and lost– turn their one-way communication into a effortless exchange. It’s his right, as Huntsman, and they owe him their half of the bargain.

But he doesn’t know to ask.