Panther Park Ideals of a Disturbed Mind

Today would have marked the first Cycle of the Nightmare Child's time in the world. As a gift, Slade gave a thought to something that was unexpected of him; a gift. Nothing materialistic. He wasn't that shallow. No, knowledge was what he would stoke the mind of his apprentice with. He had trained the youth hard, from the Birth, seclusion from the prying eyes of the Overworld giving the whelp nothing he would want from an audience, as they wouldn't approve over such ritual.
Slade was going to give the Prophet the locaction of where one of the wolves who slaughtered the totality of his birthpack.

He had tracked each of them down, taking each night he could to locate where they lay their head at night, afternoon, and morn. In the wee hours before the sun rose, in the lightest brush of dawn, he set out, finding them all.
Two had died, one had watched from rabies, and the other he hadn't. One had been taken by poachers, Slade's molten gaze upon the once fully breathing wolf who now was being packed into the back of a pickup truck with humans holding rifles and looking for their next victim. He had disappeared back into the bush, nothing more than a wind and a well honed nose capable of finding anything dealing with him, that day. But one of the ones he had found specifically, the one who unbeknownst to him was he who taunted the pup upon his near final breath.

After an hour of observation, he had come to find it wasn't alone, leading a pack of wolves made up almost entirely of youths, a year being the median age of them all, 5, he counted. The alpha was the Prophet's goal. Of course Slade would go to watch. He told himself he wouldn't help the apprentice on his Trial, but the one thing they would need to pass through was a flat treeland holding a well stocked lake, the place being Panther Park and nothing but wounded soldiers left the park, if at all. It was a favored spot for panthers, the large cats being able to pick off young wolves for meals, or even just to kill for encroaching upon territory. The seasoned wolves barley left, unscathed. Slade had a tangle with a panther there once. A savage thing it was, but it's cunning didn't match Slade's own malice. He walked from the won fight, lucky enough to have only gotten 4 slashed new scars across the right right shoulder, where his Brotherhood mark once hung like the omen it used to be. Metaphorical as it seems, it showed to him how the old and original Brotherhood was no more. He appreciated that, as it felt without him and his fellow Brother Bane, the pack's order in silent and deadly but still sanely composed murderers hung in ruins. Though he couldn't get the internal intel he wanted form the pack, as they were full of those who watched back, he just held to the gut feeling, and mayhap ignorant arrogant pride, that it was just not the same.

Up he howled for @Makaro, the baritones of his vocals calling for the onyxian heir as he sat atop the gnarled woodwork of the Hallow's overground root system. And without fail, the void emerged.