Blackfeather Woods far away across the field

demands, questions. but no violence, and his stare remained even, his contenance empty. he was still a moment longer, and when she failed to turn to physical aggression, he dipped his muzzle. the motion was smooth, perfect, an invitation to follow. and then he was moving, remaining glue to the open trails and always within sight, though his nature drew him so strongly to the patches of shadow and cover. the distance was short; he'd planned this, after all, as his offering was placed carefully at the base of a towering oak, oppressive and dark. he drew back and sat on the opposite side of the pile that lay there, gaze finding the girl once more. there lay three piles of herbs, all volatile in their effects. first oleander, stacked neatly, then dumb cane, and the skeletal one's favourite, jimson weed. atop them all lay a raven's feather, glossy and neatly preened. he is utterly still and even his steady breaths manage barely to shift his chest. he waits.