Blackfeather Woods we are animal hungry down to our delicate bones

most of this post is rambling fluff. :x

the caws and cackles of the ravens can be heard overhead and far off in the distance, carrying through the tree's canopy and the blood-red bushes. the trees are thin in this section of the woods, some bowed as if they grew with a mighty force pressing against their trunks. winterbane's blue-black pelage marked by his trademark silvery-blue mane bestows him very little camouflage in redgrove which is easily one of the lighter sub-territories of blackfeather woods. he does not remember this place from his cubhood. obviously, it has always been here ...though it was possible it was one of the places he was warned not to venture. he does not remember; or perhaps more accurately he does not care to. he is a formidable adult now, bear-like and more tundrian than he is coywolf. very, very little of arturo can be found in wintersbane ...except perhaps for scattered nuances of mannerisms and approaches to issues. the tundrian is his mother's son primarily; proudly. in body, in soul ...and one day in legacy.

a black feather floats lazily to the ground as a raven flies overhead, letting out a loud cackle. wintersbane pauses in his steps and watches it's graceful descent to the ground where it lands and tangles in the bloodied leaves and spindly branches of the bush directly in the tundrian's path. he inspects it for a moment. would he have been in the habit of collecting feather he'd have scooped it up for the feather itself is pristine, long and unbroken; but it holds no interest to him and he does not know of anyone who enjoys collecting such things. ultimately, however, wintersbane silently deems it as uninteresting and sidesteps the bush to continue on his way.