Tormented Tarns The crow

thx for joining!

He stopped, broad paws sinking slightly into the frost-rimed mud as he lifted his head to scan the tarn.

A shadow lingered at the edge of his vision, just beyond the web-draped trees—a wolf, slight and pale, standing as still as stone.

Blackfell didn’t move immediately. He stood like a monument in the murk. His breath rose in slow, deliberate plumes, curling faintly before disappearing.

Hunger. Solitude. Suspicion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low, like the scrape of stone against steel. "Need somethin'?"