Ravensblood Forest daddy's getting hot [ part i ]

a soft snort leaves the dreadfather; a small way of agreeing with her without verbally coming out and saying so. i could see that, they drawl; smoky timbre lilting with a tone that could be considered teasing. their steps pause as a scent catching their attention, head bowing to draw in the scents upon the borders.

sacrarium wolves and prey mingling together into an interesting aroma of predator and prey; made sickly sweet by the rich maple-like sap that bleeds from the trees.

well, they begin a low, rumbling murmur. collecting bodies only gets a pack so far. if there was disconnect, it wasn't likely the pack would survive. again, the urge to check the threadbones is strong; digging it's claws within the dreadfather with a sense of almost violent urgency. it presents itself in a strong twitch of his ear, of scarred lip.

the threadbones demand to be read. he offers just in case she has picked up on the strange, almost jerky movements of someone who is clearly making themselves do something despite that they didn't really want to: as if patrolling the borders was not a choice they had chosen but one that the voidwraiths chose for them, tugging them along as if they were a puppet on a string.

contributing in a way they knew how that had less to do with their beliefs was important but the priest within the dreadfather is — and always would be — stronger.