Blackfeather Woods Sinking your nails in my heart

sorry for the wait on this! work kicked my butt the past couple of days.

wintersbane watches the stranger dine upon rotted flesh with a slow curl of his lip. in disgust, in slow brewing annoyance. did it occur to you that there could be poison upon that flesh? wintersbane isn't sure but anything was possible. perhaps this had always been a consideration and perhaps steps had been taken to allot for this very circumstance. what better retribution that to ensure sickness is caused ( providing the rotting meat does not cause it first )? even so: that is clearly the stranger's problem.

his attempt at recruitment is met with a grin and nothing else. perhaps it is better, wintersbane considers, does the dark woods really want a wolf so desperate he would eat rotting corpses off of the borders of a pack with the darkest reputation in the wilds? the answer, he thinks, is no. the tundrian can almost hear the raspy, reedy laugh of the dread father in the wind that rushes in short and periodic bursts through the trees at his back.

the dark brother hides a grin of his own.

name. a demand? or a request? nevertheless it comes from the stranger in a sand-paper voice that sound unused. raw. wintersbane has no intention of bowing to such a request. that wasn't how this worked. the stranger was at his borders — not the other way around. you first. wintersbane demands in smoky rasp, tone implying that there is no room to negotiate his own demand. information is not something that is given freely around here and while he assumes the stranger does not know that ( perhaps their reputation has yet to reach his ears; seems to be such ) he will know it now, wintersbane determines.