Blackfeather Woods want my friend, want my heart’s mend

The pale youth had not fought before running into the silver boy. Not if you did not count the countless play fights, often engaged upon by her more rabunctious counterpart, anyway. While the spirit was tending to one of the altars in the dark forest, she sensed that something was wrong. She could not explain what it was that urged her to the borders, a slight limp in her gait from her fight with the silver boy still. The wound had been mended by the caretaker, but it seemed that it was a tenacious pain to truly get rid of. Yet instead of wallowing she savoured the pain, allowing it to fill her with a feeling of being alive and an adrenaline that left her ready for a fight.

A fight was what was waiting, it would appear. She heard sounds of the scuffle from afar and with her tail in the air and large ears perked up alertly she approached, a warning growl rumbling in her throat to indicate that she was ready to back up her other half.