Blackfeather Woods With strange aeons even death may die

he listened, and weighed his judgements. damien was among the most interesting; he'd been a proud and stoic warrior when the Raven had last layed eyes on him. his sister, obsessive with her want for him, had gotten what she wanted, then. the boy's tongue slides over his lips, and hunger sits heavy. he knows what their talk means, for he's heard it before and knows its direction. war will come here. however long it may take, in whatever form it may arrive. he will pick through this information later, for gazes turn towards and past him. he is left with a choice; reveal himself where he lays, or leave as furtively as he's come. he's no desire to interact with them, for the work before him is lengthy still and they will as questions he can not answer. 

he stands on stilted legs and moves with the same odd grace as when he met mou. his place in the shadows is discard and the apparation moves to stand where to two may see him, gaze that glassed-over void that could have just as well belonged to the crows and ravens that watch from above. he stands a moment, two, and then his muzzle dips a fraction, the movement only made apparent by the stillness of the rest of him. not an enemy. and then Abraxas turns heel and moves back the way he's come, and if he is left to go he will vanish into the shadows as quickly as he's left them.