Blackfoot Forest and the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

stigmata's affection for forests and wealds and all manner of wooded venues did not extend to those woods without charm. and whatever charm blackfoot had was lost to the irksome cries of too many cooks foxes, as he noted with disdain that this place was overrun with them, for lack of a show from better predators. they were quick and clever -- the most wise of them ignoring curiosity to steer wide and clear of the annoyed wolf traipsing through their stomping grounds -- but one vixen had not been so fortunate.

he watched now as a grim, shadowy figure shared her carrion body with the crows. his eyes of great lackluster flashed thoughtfully as he took in the scene, but for the life of him he could not fathom why this male had treated the carcass with such precision. quiet, he continued to watch from the treeline, his outline taking on the properties of a gargoyle grown in the woods.

after too long gone unacknowledged, stigmata lost interest and slunk on.