Blackfeather Woods galaxies formed from gravity

The dull ache in his joints urges him to take shelter in the tunnels, or perhaps take another trip to the springs, though he chose to do neither. Tensions were high—the birds called to him, the looming threat felt even by them—and he knew he could not so easily vanish from the territory, not until everything settled down. He took to the borders instead, trailing through the stretch of land between the eastern border and the lake, alert. The crimson print on his shoulder had faded, leaving behind a light stain that couldn’t be seen from a distance, allowing him to blend with the snow falling around him. He imagined himself to appear similar to his grandfather now, a silent entity hidden by the snowfall and existing as one with the northern winds; though the howls of the winds in the south were mere whispers in comparison to those of his homeland, they were still there, guiding him along.

Shifting closer to the treeline, he was prepared to cut through the forest and patrol the western border when a howl caught his attention—it was low but drew him in nevertheless. He sought out the owner, his patrol set aside for the time being as he continued southbound.

She was pale, blending well with the scenery that surrounded her, yet not invisible; to the untrained eye, perhaps she would have been, but he was accustomed to the starkness of the north and the wolves that called it home. Picking her out from the snow was an easy task, and he moved closer until there wasn’t much space left between them, creating a comfortable space for conversation. “What brings you here?” he asked without hesitation, fairly used to intercepting strangers at the borders. And as he awaited an answer, he looked her over, silently assessing her.