Blackfeather Woods fruit of thy womb.

The snarl was what drew the Raven, the words laced with contempt allowing him to trace them easily. he did not tread into the clearing immidiatley, but instead stalked near until he was in a gnarled, faded clump of undergrowth a distance away, blending in well with the decomposing leaves and brittle branches, his small size and the fact that he was utterly still allowing him not to be noticed. he had not seen two members of the wood fight, and snarls usely meant that such an affair was in order.

so the boy watched, in utter silence, observing the scene before him yet not yet entering it. he was good, quite good, and blending into the background. that skill would serve him now.