Blackfeather Woods when we all fall asleep; where do we go

the ravens had told him. he came because this place was a sanctuary, invoked the closest feeling akin to belonging that a beast such as himself could feel. he came because they were gone, shattered, he knew that it would be so. he came because there was nothing and nobody to drive him away. he was still as above the birds whispered and quarreled, perched perfectly near the entrance of wolfskull, as if skulpted from the same rock that bared its fangs at his back. a raven pulled away from the treetops to alight on the ground near the man, who's steel gaze, flat and piercing as the bird's, followed its movements as it shift its wings atop its back, waiting, obedient. 

he knew all the old paths. Abraxas had not Eaten in weeks, and his birds hungered alongside him.

astara had lived in blackfeather’s dominion long enough to have studied the habits of the black denizens that roosted in the wood’s canopy — and the shrill chatter of cries that rose like cold mist over the still forest was enough to alert her that some beast walked among them. 

following their calls, the girl came upon the source of disruption — an eerie creature by all accounts, though truth be told astara was well accustomed to strangeness. measuring him with a detached expression, the dark ghoul flicked an ear, waiting for him to give some indication of why he was here.

the bird and boy looked toward the girl simultaneously, though the raven, as if senseing something distinctly wrong, alighted to the nearest treetop to join its brethern. Abraxas did no such thing, gaze lingering a long moment before unfurling himself smoothly, as if marble given life, closing the distance between them until he drew near enough to see the violet, stark against the darkness of her. his muzzle slid towards her while the rest of him remained rooted, drawing in her scent with careful breath while gaze met hers a moment, flat and dull and seemingly lacking the intelligence of a living being.

he gave her nothing but the primitive greeting of their kind. astara accepted it, watching as his flat eyes roved over her frame. it was rare a wolf greeted her in such a way -- and while it was the salutation of choice and the preferred language of her species, it seemed too few wolves spoke the original tongue: the language of old, when their ancestors roamed this earth and had naught but coarsely wagging tongues in which to eat and sup and little else.

she stepped away once the ritual had been completed, having found little scent of value in his pelt. her gaze drew to the bird, which waited with a strangely obedient mein behind the man.

he withdrew, considering, but the flesh of the girl did not tempt him. they rarely did, the young, the strong, no he prefered the old and the weak. he hunted them as wolves hunt sheep, and he brought them from life carefully and took the meal that was his. he blinked, and with a simple dip of his muzzle that could easily be considered an invitation he slipped into the dark wood, making for the witch's den and the stores he hoped remained.

the dark shade pulled away from astara, and she watched as he stalked past, indifferent to her presence.

but she was not indifferent, she was intrigued.

wordlessly, the girl stalked after him much in the manner of a panther, wondering who he was, why he was here, and why the forest seemed to accept his presence with the same black, accustomed pleasure that it accepted her.

who was he?