Blackfeather Woods evil's soft first touches

It did not take long before the fiend was met along the bloodied border. Ithrik watched with a calculating gaze. His molten eyes were trained on the gait of the pale wolf who had come to greet him with a quick pleasantry. It offered little room for formalities. This was fine. Ithrik was not fond of small talk. His dark lips curled upward in a small smile. The tips of his rotten canines peered from beneath the thin leathery line. The alabaster brute was painted in scars. He appeared a warrior of his kind, but the devil wasn’t particularly interested in this observation. He was curious how the stranger would hold himself on a communicative level. Typically, those riddled with proof of war were not eloquent in the social aspects of their lives. Already, the alpha of the wood was proving to be direct. That was not to say he would lack tact entirely. It simply seemed an unlikely event. 

Blinking slowly, Ithrik lowered his head in the customary standard and dropped his tail. He knew well enough. Still, his dark lips were curled in a sinister smirk. ”My nephew seems to have travelled this way. His trail leads to your borders. Iliksis is dear to me. I should like to be with him. I can offer you my skills,” the frightful creature said. His voice was high in pitch and seemed to dance through the air like a drifting fog. Ithrik then waited, for surely this brute would inquire what it was exactly that he could offer.