Blackfeather Woods it isn’t the storm that makes the ocean dangerous

They have come, and it is long overdue.

The winds change as the shadows the dark forest loom in animosity, their enemies, upon the banks of their home in considerable numbers. The Dark Master breathes in, eyelids fluttering closed as he takes in the invading scents surrounding the woods, counting silently within his head. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Five forces come to drive them out... but they are prepared. His eyes snap open only to narrow, throwing his head back and sounding a long, commencing call for the wolves of Blackfeather Woods with one clear message: burn them all. 

As if a storm trapped within his feet, his paws hit the ground thunderously as he moves with a dire, blood-thirsty haste; well-defined muscles churning beneath his thick, stark white pelage that sticks out like a neon sign amidst the dark as he pushes forth. Cicero and Koume's scent converging in one general area is where he heads for, and eventually falls alongside his estranged uncle as they lead the intruders to the meadow of sweet death; the one of hallucinogens he had since become immune to over the course of his life. And in time too, the toxins are more than guaranteed to knock off a few of Drageda's forces as the rest of the forest snares the unsuspecting attackers within its geological booby traps.

The rest of Blackfeather will do the same, utilizing what they have to the highest degree -- playing dirty -- but playing wise. Redhawk Caldera and Drageda have made a critical lapse in judgement to seek out war with a pack as conniving as they, and to do so on their home turf... it is not something even Vaati would do. Allowing himself the freedom of a laugh, the yearling releases what can only be described as a cackle of the unholy itself, before disappearing into the eerie mist of the Weeping Willow.

It is here he waits, among the smoke and low lights, his breathing reduced to heavy pants as the air of the wicked fills is lungs. But its effects will be even more detrimental to those who follow, those who have no clue what they stumble into. Vaati licks over his canines. "Come along little piggies... we're all waiting." The yearling snickers mockingly to himself, and to whomever may hear. He has waited too long to be afraid of what comes next, having tasted blood and longed for war for too long to run and hide. Another error they have yet made, waiting too long to make their move. They have left him waiting, and now he is bloodthirsty. Bloodthirsty and reckless. Bad things happen when Vaati is reckless.