Blackfeather Woods it tells you who's real and who's not

the hellhound lingers in the deep obsidian shadows of the blackfeather. at first, the woodland was shelter from the cool mist that lingered upon the morning air; seeping into his bones like a chill that would not shake.

yet, even as the day wanes on, ingram does not leave. instead, he explores; tucking away his rabbit pelt of threadbones into a deemed safe hiding spot so they did not slow him down.

there was something about this place that spoke to him in a primal language that felt like the dreadfather's mind brushing his. a non-language that he had once been fluent in.

black, leathery nostrils flare as he takes in the scents; pawing at the moss covered ground for a moment before he keeps on, tempted by what secrets the woods held deep in its heart.