Blackfeather Woods the song you sing is wretched and cold

@Astrid & @Damien

And so the trickster did what he does best and fooled his way to the border.

The stench of blood and murder was sucked into his nostrils where it sat for a moment, his mind marinating in its glory. The Jester had never been a fan of life; it was death that intrigued him. Thus, it only made sense that he would find himself on the borders of leaders with obviously similar tastes. He licked his chops as he stepped slowly to this side and that, putting on a sort of show for his coming audience. His audience; of course! The Jester lifted his head and called for a crowd, hoping that they might be entertained by his light prance and intriguingly frank candor. 

There had been many days preceding this in which he had gone without eating, having had to survive on the only skill he had ever learned while growing up: comedy. He would charm young wolves into fetching him food from their caches, or scavenging from what he could before the rightful owners of the prey came and left their marks. Yes; The Jester learned quickly that when one was in need, hilarity seemed to lose its worth. Still, he continued with his song, looking onward with a devilish grin as he awaited company.