Tormented Tarns The crow

The ground beneath Blackfell's paws was sodden, the frost-rimed mud slick as he navigated the narrow strip of land winding through the tarn. Each step was heavy, nails digging into the earth to keep from slipping into the cold, stagnant water on either side.

He paused, his fern-green eyes narrowing as they swept the sodden landscape. The air was thick with damp and decay. The tarns stank of rot—stagnant water mingling with the wet, sour smell of the decaying foliage submerged beneath it.

This was no place for the faint of heart, and it was little wonder the path was nearly untouched.

Blackfell's breath rose in faint puffs as he moved again, his hulking frame slipping effortlessly between the web-draped trees.