Blackfeather Woods seige and storm

the morning had been painted bleakly; a chill lingering in the air to compliment the broken clouds that skittered across the moon-touched night before sullivan had crossed into the threshold of the nightshaded woods.

the darkness clung to every fibre of blackfeather woods; unnatural sounds rising from the skittish shadows.

eerie yips and spine-tingling screeches that set his guard hairs to bristle.

but he persists; drawn by the mystery and his own morbid curiousity.