Ravensblood Forest the cask of amontillano

@Chusi? :)

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Arturo's land is vast, but little in number; a pack susceptible to whatever force may rain down upon them should Teaghlaigh's enemies decide it so. They are not as strong as he had expected, as he wants, for Rollo is not an easily defenseless man but one full of precaution. From what he observes so serenely yet fumingly within the shadows of the land, Arturo himself is the only man of notable power, the others, women and children; none of use to the brawn such a claim on land that is an essential driving force. Rollo has rivals and demons alike of his own, and should they prove to follow his staggering shadow, he cannot cowar in a land with no walls. He paces, silent but compelling, each step a glimps into his imbalance, his anger. He has been misled, inclosed within a trap of his own choosing, led astray by the promise of tranquility in the near distance in the absence of mortal safety. However, he cannot curse the man who has so enticed him, it was the self of no judgement that has caused sure peril. His shadow, his reckoning, it bubbled beneath the surface of his integrity, simmering and waiting with earnest to expose the emotionless pit that swallowed all humanity from his shell in a mere moment. He cannot loose the trust of Arturo by the hand of his shadow self, as he felt the change of his rank surge from the bottom of the tier he quaked in regret. Arturo's trust, placed in a man who even God has abandoned, left slave to perdition. His tounge traces the split in his maw as he recalls what damnation truly means, a brutal reminder of what was and will forever be, etched in the stone of his fate.

Thundering strides carries the steady lope further along the borders, movements that he feels out of tune to as if viewing his body from another's eyes. If only, he whispers inaudibly; praying to a God that does not listen as savage blood flows hungrily through his veins, knowing It looms upon him. He is the Raven, the spearhead and the Reaper; and as he runs underneath a sky smothered in darkness, he emerges in a mere moment, a shadow. Endarkened, re-encarnated, he is the dark side of the moon as Rollo is shedded, replaced by a knight of Hell. Optics burn as He sniffs the air, welcomed into a place were he does not belong. The man snarls, a chant, a mock of victory as the sky opens up once more and the light returns to the land; Rollo does not stop running.

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