The Tangle those that keep the faith

It came in a cloud of irridescent darkness. An unkindness, they called it, when two or more ravens were gathered together. And, if one were to watch the amorphous blob of hell and feathers on its way south (every shade of black imaginable, from oil slick to burnt earth to blood shed at the witching hour) they might very well think it fitting.

But the raven watched, and if it thought anything at all, this did not show on its face.

The wind was high even after the flock had passed into the distance, and the bird hunkered down where it had landed among its ilk - only to remain when the rest took wing - gazing around at the reaching arms of what wolves here called the Tangle. Beady, glittering eyes carved a path through the twisted trunks and needle-clad boughs.

If it had been looking for something, that thing did not appear to be present. Regardless, the bird remained there on the branch,

silent
and still
and watchful.