Blackfeather Woods Black Adder

Into the council of trees his maw will part, distorted silhouettes that twist like a cage over the wan gleam of the moon.

“The woods hold words yet to be spoken.” There was a task here yet, if he endeavored to know the country. To persuade riches from the regions of green in the different forms they would take.

To his raven he looks now, with an orderly golden luster in eyes that hold her close, “Do what you will in this land, Little Raven, but do not bide your time. I await you in the desert.”