Shadewood the night of long fangs

The seafarer knew that she would agree. The black rock was their own to claim, and the pale beast knew with each thrum of his heart that they drew close. The sea had blessed them with her might and they would be required to return to her. Already, the pale beast grew tiresome of the passing trees and the melodious cries of the birds overhead. His limbs longed to feel the crashing of the waves against them and the sharp caw of the seagull against the saline winds. Smokestep felt that if he had to trek much further, his good nature would whittle to a short fuse.

Up no more than fifty yards from the two travelers, the brush rustled with the activity of a young hare – eager to bound beneath the canopy of shelter. As the pirate closed the space between himself and the prey animal, he slowed his pace. His ears stood tall atop his skull and he lowered his muzzle toward the earth with an intent expression. The marauder lifted his head a few inches from the earth to warn his sibling of nearby food.

“There's game afoot,” he growled quietly.