Ravensblood Forest hush, lay down your troubled mind

The stains of blood cover the entirety of his muzzle and splattered on his chest. A hunt gone right and the aftermath of shoving his muzzle deep into the animals gut to get at the softer organs. Though he isn’t able to bask in the hunt for long; as a single howl sounds through the air, his ears swivel in every which direction. Brows furrow and he realizes the howl is unfamiliar. Surely this can’t be good.

He bids his body to move and dodge trees as he gathers himself into a gallop. Finally the monstrous sequoias thin out enough to reveal his sturdy form. Head held high accompanied by a casual expression. Though seeing all these new faces, some old and familiar in both good ways and bad, he raises his white eyebrows and he can’t help the smile that contorts his face handsomely. Canary hues gleam with suspicion and his smirk is positively devilish, but still bordering on casual. The blood that covered his maw remains, painting him to look like the devil himself. For the cherry on top, a flat black tongue flicks over his lips and whiskers, wiping some of the blood clean and quietly smacking his lips to get a good taste of it.

The curled appendage on his hips sway as he steps forward to face the group head on. Walking languidly to stop a comfortable twenty or so feet away from them he nods his head. Recognizing Simmik of course first. His eyes wandering over her face, searching for emotions that are currently well hidden. Then Huā, then the black and white wolf he remembers accidentally wandering into their territory. The rest of them he can’t quite put a finger on.

So here he is, the leader of the ever growing and malicious pack of the Saints of the Dying Light. He’s confident in his stature as he watches them. Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. “It seems you’ve called me.” He hums, though the tone of voice he uses is playful there’s a malicious undertone to it. He tilts his head. “Have you come to kill me?” He asks deeply, more serious this time.