Luneshale Pass Black moon

“A death,” he spoke to the black air and kept his eyes to her’s. Perfectly round and seeing all.

“You’ve kept watch, you must have an idea of the political climate,” he crossed his long dark limbs one over the other gracefully. He gleaned beautifully, as did she. With his nose he made an indication toward the pass, where a whispering wind brought to ear the distant rumblings of the stonewolves. “They act as though there will soon be one.”

“The mortal creature dies. A God does not,” his lips take to an enlivened smile. “Are you devout, owl?”