The Tangle those that keep the faith

It did not seem to move, but something in its countenance was subtly changed. If it had lips, it would have smiled. Since it did not, the change may well have been lost on the wolf. "Underneath," it repeated, moving with exaggerated, liquid lethargy to point the curve of its beak toward the ground. "Beneath us. You."

It looked for a moment as though it would stop there, bent at that angle. But the raven continued to dip until it seemed as though it might fall dead from the branch, keeled over by some wicked, unknown sickness. At the last moment, though, dark wings flared on either side, and it swept up into the air in a flurry of motion, the slide of its feathers an unpleasant cacophony.

The bird moved only a few yards away before alighting once more on the branch of an ancient coastal pine. This one was rickety, and creaked under its weight. "Beneath," it croaked again, point its beak to the ground.

At the base of the tree, there was a dark and unsettling crevice, just large enough for an enterprising wolf to squeeze through.