Ravensblood Forest only a fool would make martyrs from heathens

An even 1:1 on their recent record, but Renard wasn't bothered on their chances. The footing was much more…understandable, here. Win or lose, it seemed like their neck would be staying where it is. “Lead the way,” the wolfdog said, half-smile quirking their lips, and followed Donovan as he headed deeper into the forest.

Their memory wasn't photographic by any means, but Renard kept an eye out as they moved. Always paid to know as much as you could; information was worth plenty, even if just to themselves, and something they’d already been trading. Though they did have to admit there wasn't much to see except what they’d been seeing since they arrived on the border.

After a while, moving further and further into the forest, the impossibly tall tree trunks began to thin out, the blood-red sap with them. Much less of an atmosphere, and not much more comfortable for sneaky purposes, which were currently unnecessary. They’d already been seen.

“Had any success with recruiting yet?” Renard asked. They’d reached some sort of clearing – devoid of most of the trees and the brush, grass clipped short, and the exposure of it all made their spine prickle a little. Missing the shadow already, it seemed. “You have chosen a home with such a friendly atmosphere.”