Blackfeather Woods hurt me and i'll bleed dior

Once upon a time these woods had been inhabited by a clan of wolf, who had claimed the name of Blackfeather. In their prime they had instilled fear and horror in the flatland wolves. They had feared no person or god, save for the one they themselves had worshipped. They had abided to no rule and lived the way they had wanted. There were even rumours that there was a passage to the Hell itself and that the King of Darkness himself had reigned there through his faithful followers. And, when they had perished through conflict, disease and old age, only ghosts of the past had remained. It was said that for those, who dared to wander in there on their own, chances were still to meet the Devil himself.

Dwin had long since outgrown the age, when she believed that every story her parents and babysitters had told, was true. Now she found ideas of spirits and ghosts and supernatural amusing and useful, when it came to putting her siblings and cousins in place, but she did not think much beyond that. Therefore, when she had come here, following a fresh scent trail left by a hare, she did not think much about any of the legends or warnings to stay away from here. After all in broad daylight this was simply another forest. Strange - yes, but if the meal was good, the look of the restraurant did not matter.

It turned out that another person here was of the same opinion - Dwin caught sight of the young male first, stopped in her tracks and regarded him carefully for a while, before making her presence known with a: "Do you know that, before you hunt here, you need to make a tribute to the spirits?"