Blackfeather Woods with all the taste i desire

deserving of the death omens or not, scarab finds himself near constantly in their presences nonetheless. for now, the plagued prince finds it perturbing ...hoping that as time pulsed on that it would fade like the ache of a bruise. the first time the pale wolf makes his way past scarab, his presence goes unnoticed by the golden dahomey-riviani as he tries to ignore his own internal war and focus on the bones littered about the stone alter. they appear strategically placed, if not a moved a bit by heavy winds; yet that is not enough to keep the would-be bandit from thieving them for his sparse collection.

though the petrified sandpiper was his crowning jewel, it paled alone. other treasures and trinkets were needed to reassemble it as the apple of scarab's eye ...despite that he still clutches to his sandpiper as if it would bring back the innocence that he had slaughtered in the name of survival.

the second time the pale wolf passes thru, scarab is nosing about the bones left behind, picky about which he will take. the footfalls bring about the cautious flick of an ear — there is a feeling that he shouldn't be taking from this place — and scarab's head snaps in the direction of the older male, lapis lazuli gaze hardening. he does not play innocent as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. these bones were presumably abandoned and thus they were his.

finders, keepers.

the spectre rumbles a low, perhaps sultry laugh that only falls upon scarab's own ears with twitch errantly in the illusion's direction before they cup forth towards the stranger, his stance becoming possessive over the alter. just in case. what're you doing here? the plagued prince demands, as if this stone altar is his kingdom and this scarred stranger is trespassing.

nanowrimo: 311