Ravensblood Forest Wer um die Göttin freit, suche in ihr nicht das Weib

As they stand, basking in the glow in the serenity of the forest. The comfortable silence is bearable for the few seconds it lasts. Before the long legged she-wolf whispers a single word. Saints. He’s hardly able to do it and his own ears are mimicking hers as they swivel in her direction.

Eyes drift to her own and he nods. “My pack. The Saints of the Dying Light.” Then he looks away, a touch of pain evident in the gold of his irises. Not a physical pain — no — am emotional one instead. “I am rebuilding what I lost here in these lands.”

Again he finds enough strength in him to look back once more. “You don’t have a pack then? Doesn’t smell like it.” It’s merely a quiet observation. His intention isn’t to be rude.