Blackfeather Woods The matrix of arcane energy stored within

this were a place of power. the air was thick with scents. spirits. the black matron knew their kind. a culture felled by time. a village buried beneath volcanic ash. such was the fate of anything canine.

she cradled a bleached skull.

her cape had been discarded among trees, while she conversed with bones. ordered them largest to smallest, attempting to divine the past from their state and shape. that had taken her daylight, and now in the black of night she limped her way to the epicenter of power, the skull still held to her breast.

the scream tore darkness like a tooth. suddenly, she knew clearly where they were, their age and kin.

yet, the black matron calmly reminded herself, what did it matter? no harm would come her way. her newfound pulse thrummed with too much power. the banshee would need mind their own affairs.

she limped past the shape of a child, attention to the tree.