Blackfeather Woods I'm not scared to be seen, I make no apologies

The Svartell felt far more comfortable being able to disguise his presence in the shadows coating the Woods in an eternal darkness, paw steps silent as he weaved swiftly around trees in search of nothing in particular. His mind drifted back to the wolverine, and perhaps out of instinct he peered around to glance at his scarred shoulder, but it did not give him anything other than satisfaction. Because he had dislocated the arm of that creature, reopened a dangerously deep wound, and enraged it, but had bested it. The thing had left as soon as it realised it was at a disadvantage. That, and the scars across his shoulder only made the Reaper appear more dangerous to the eye, marks to show he had fought and survived. He would grow to be deadly opponent if he was not that already.

He was hardly a boy anymore, this dark and serious man. He had seen it in his mother's eyes when the sylph looked at him but a few weeks before - his father, too. They knew he was not the same innocent boy that had curled up at Olive's side and nibbled his ebony sibling's ear. He was becoming a killer, a soldier ready to follow commands and commit deeds seen as ghastly by another, though it affected him very little. This was him, and the path he had chosen.

Aries prowled the dark domain of the Blackfeather wolves now with no intentions, not until the wind passed a scent to his nostrils, one that made his ears cup forward and his curiousity spark. With a small puff of air releasing through his nose and creating a cloud of frosted breath before him, the svelte yet muscular wolf began to head toward the source of the scent. Once he caught sight of her, he emerged from the shade of the trees like a shadow casted by the tall wood, chuffing a greeting to alert her to his presence.