King Elk Forest we are like gods at the dawning of the world

Offical claim howl! Fast forward for august 21st. @Seabreeze, @Delight, @Nova, @Trajan, @Malice, @Burke, @Uka

Tindómë rises. Their claim is solid, their grasp upon the kingdom they have built is firm and their numbers are strong. Anticipation builds within the empyrean’s breast as he makes his patrol rounds on the borders but he does not yet call out to howl, to invite his wolves to join in song with him to finalize their claim. There is a moment coming: he feels it in the marrow of his bones, in the charge of his nerves. The eclipse. It is coming. He has been watching the night sky for several day, noting when the constellations told him the position of the moon. The sun was high in the sky and he draws in a breath as he glimpses it through a break in the green canopy that stretches vastly before him, yawning into the neighboring territory of Silver Creek. He rubs himself against a tree that sits upon his borders, wincing only slightly as a tuft of fur snags upon the hard bark and is tugged loose. Bright, apple green gaze studies his path for a moment before he heads towards the heart of the forest in search of a place where he might better see the eclipse as it wanes nearer. He knows better than to look at it directly but his anticipation thrums in his veins as the moon creeps ever closer to the sun.

He finds a perfect spot: a small clearing close to where the King Elk has made his home directly in the forest’s heart. He gives the majestic elk his space and has yet to see the beast but he hopes they might cross paths soon and meet on amiable terms. They share this forest now, after all; but the elk is safe from the wolves of Tindómë. King Elk is the warden of this forest for it was his long before it was theirs and Mato has already decided that punishment would befall any wolf that raised tooth or claw to the warden of the forest …if the rumored wolf killer didn’t take action on his own, that was.

Shadows begin to form, swallowing the bright light of day and the druid’s breath catches in his throat as the omen of luck, of good things manifests in the sky. It takes much of his restraint not to look directly at the forming eclipse as the shadows grow, telling himself a glimpse would not be worth the possibility of going blind. Instead, he looks at it’s reflection in a nearby pond and marvels at the sight. Now is the time. The Morwinyon tips his head back and lets out a song of victory, a claim and a warning and beckons his wolves to join in, to add their voices to his claiming song.

Tindómë has risen.