Ravensblood Forest The best traveler is one without a camera

so long had it been since he'd last heard their songs, their beautiful voices raised to the skies! it made the heart ache, to think of how the wanderer had come and gone, and his dark artemis's pack was no more.

but, a walker needs a stocked belly to do what he's made for. mother sea, so unkind, left him with little choice. slavuj entered the forest, tassels tugging on braches.

it was a fruitless escapade. he persisted, pushing on in search of buried scraps or some small gift from father land, but the edge approached and his insides protested.

he was to turn back - what laid on that side of the treeline wasn't for a dog like him - when the smallest sound, crunch of snow or snap of twig, made a weighed down ear wish to perk up!

his own approach towards the noise would be loud and obvious.