Blackfoot Forest striding, powerful, into the arms of death

Revui left the valley in the morning and crossed through the meadow, following his whims rather than any scent trail. He was losing faith that Ikkalrok would ever surface from the den and began to view it as a grave, and he could not dwell beside it and feel any satisfaction with his own life.

He had always wanted to be more than he was, either through his rank among his family or through his physical pursuits, and it felt as if he were rotting while he waited for her. He needed excitement in his life — and aside from their tryst and the blood they spilled together in the past, there was nothing to keep him invested, nothing that made sense to the leviathan at any rate.

The far-off mountains remained distant enough to prove alluring, but close enough to stab at Revui's heart in places he kept dark and locked away. They looked impressive as they dominated the horizon. It wasn't quite so ominous with the summer light weaving between the needle-thin trees. There were foxes here; he did not need to look far to find signs of them, as the air was thick with the musty ammonia quality of their little bodies. Revui grimaces, remembering the game of butchery that he had participated in before, with Ikkalrok, and how it had united them.

There is another scent — a more familiar one, in the sense that wolves all held a commonality — and he is drawn towards this instead. When there comes the sound of pacing, of footfalls upon the dry tinder of the forest floor, Revui is alert, and notices a gray shape striding behind rows upon rows of trees; it is hard to make out their intent but they appear to be hunting. The man is intrigued and approaches without hesitation, his own steps reverberating through the forest.