Emberflame Ridge Getting Busy with a Bad Perfume

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Molten silver.

A monochrome fade commanded the skies of the ridge this evening, tempestous brews of storms yet to pass. If not for the insufferable heat of the wetlands, the silencer would be revelling in the electricity of the atmosphere; aura of ardour. It was his favoured weather, when the thunder commenced and jagged bolts of light tore through the canvas above. Vehemence.

Ignoring the humidity, the itch beneath his pelt, Aries wove through the undergrowth with celerity - a mirage of stealth and poise. His movements only began to slow when the emergence of another crossed his line of sight, some foreign figure composed to gaze upward in a huff of exasperation.

While ordinarily unconcernced with the goings of others, the man had been travelling for many days now; boredom had begun to set in.