Blackfeather Woods drunk and driven by a devil's hunger.

the woods emits a darkness; seething and palpable as if it were a living, breathing entity. perhaps it was. perhaps it seeped from the ravens that roost in the spindly branches stretching above her; watching the wanheda's progression thru their domain. regardless of the ghosts and demons that dwell here, praimfaya does not feel fear. only a slight agitation at the knowledge that their beady starless nightsky eyes followed her. she pauses, scarred eye and muzzle lifting to the defiant sunlight that struggled and weakly filtered through the knotted branches above with a curl of her lips.

it does not perturb the birds who ca-caw down at her.

waiting.

a snort passes thru black leathery nostrils before she pushes forth. part of her thinks that she will not find thade here — a bigger part of praimfaya hopes to all the spirits of the commanders that she doesn't find thade here among the scavengers that would pick his bones clean.

she doesn't scent thade, but the forest has a stench all it's own, working to mask the scent of the living that have drifted through it's claim as if they were nothing more than phantoms. thus, praimfaya is physically taken aback, recoiling back, as she comes across a familiar figure laying next the skeletal remains of a corpse long since picked clean.

hela? what draws the warlord of the nightwalkers to this place? laying among the dead? there was a wave of battling disappointment and relief that it wasn't thade ( for she cannot help but fear she'd find him a corpse in this place ); though neither manage to win the war for the most dominate emotion she feels. instead, she grasps hold of the hope — however slim — that maybe hela's seen him.