Blackfeather Woods dark hiding place

They spoke of him as if he were inanimate, but for all intents and purposes, he was. A piece of detritus caught up in the wave of Potema, and happily so. Or as near to content as Crescent could feel at this point; his sense of pleasure had been dulled by the many failings in his life. He felt the hunger in his belly and the weariness in his muscles the way one might feel the warmth from the sun: constant, uncomfortable in large doses, but not entirely unpleasant. He had dulled to that too.

Yet as he waited for a verdict, the boy came to the conclusion that he would not be guaranteed anything here. Potema had promised him one thing, but this dark figure was ready to counter that promise. If he were to be given any protection, food, or security, Crescent would have to speak for himself — prove himself. It was a sickening thought. Yet he fought against gravity and the quaking of his limbs, and he got to his feet, tumultuous as he felt. His withers quaked, and the curve of his tail served as an extra limb to keep him propped up, but the boy did rise.

He turned his sunken features upon Damien and quietly — yet passionately — intoned, I am good, he drawled, not making much sense at first, but he was not a talker and it would take some warming up of the tongue for honey to flow off of it. I.. will do anything. Owe a.. a debt. The sharpness of the look upon his face was exacerbated by the clarity in those bright eyes, and Crescent turned them upon Damien without a single thought to his own safety, knowing it could be read as a challenge — but in a way he was presenting the dark wolf with such a thing.

A challenge. A promise. I will belong to her. And by proxy, the boy gave possession of himself over to Blackfeather Woods in its entirety.