Fox's Glade devil by the well

for days the sky loomed about in a stagnant grey chill - constantly announcing a downpour that never seemed to arrive - and it was an atmosphere that matched the brittle, sulking attitude of the former warhound: stigmata. the walls of bearclaw were closing in on him; he couldn't let this travesty of a pack carry on much longer without intervening, but he never operated without a plan. never without weighing all his options. so in this, he was careful, and in all things he was patient. stigmata was in no rush to accept the responsibility he aimed to receive. it was a daunting task, all of it, and the primed tactician wanted to be more than prepared for it.

under the cover of night, hoping to avoid more accusatory glares from indra, stigmata stole from his pack's territory and began to scout beneath the clouded night-sky for something with which to expel his virile energy.