Ravensblood Forest only a fool would make martyrs from heathens

Renard’s call stayed just as long as it needed to be to be heard before they went back to looking over the fringes of the woods. It was a nice place Donovan had picked out, even beyond the appropriately spooky trees. Truthfully, despite the blood just being sap, Renard loved those. Very over the top. Nothing better to state your intentions with.

The trees did afford a little less cover than they might have preferred. They were used to all the pines, low to the ground and laden in ice; there was just endless open space here. Things to get used to – they’d told themselves that already. The Yukon was old and familiar and the whole point of this, well –

Something snapped off to their left. They turned after it, ears already angled forward, but they knew who it was before they picked up the striped coat and golden eyes.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Renard said, with no small amount of false offense. They chuckled. “I suppose I understand. Like I said, no better way to understand someone. I am, indeed, here to spar.”

Though if Renard was really concerned about making themselves understood, they would never have called in the first place – they would have gone and found him themselves.

Couldn’t go giving away every secret. Where was the fun in that?