Blackfeather Woods you and me and the devil makes three

The call came, and the Raven answered. 
Optics of ice, devoid of emotion, blinked from the shadows as he stepped firth, every inch a prince of the wood. He did not speak, for words were things often wasted, and he knew not if the one before hm would even be worth his time. Piercing optics spoke yards of his intelligence, odd for one so young, and now, they spoke a stark question as they set on the other, staring without doubt of any kind. He was a beast made of night, the other, like many that made their home here. It was almost as if the darkness of this place had leeched the colour from their pelts, the boy had thought once before.