Ravensblood Forest only a fool would make martyrs from heathens

They were clearly off their game, now, because the tree was right fucking there and they hadn’t been shy about their reluctance to start climbing all over it. They were still expecting Donovan to come back after them; by the time they’d turned back around, though, instead of the teeth they were anticipating, he was – well.

Renard stopped. Straightened. Turned themselves to face the giant wolfdog perched in the branches like some very large bird. The tree’s limbs were thick, so at least he wouldn’t be snapping the branches, but this was, admittedly, a gap in Renard’s…education.

They didn’t relish the concept of tumbling out of a tree, to put it lightly. They’d snuck over a low branch or two before, of course – there was nowhere as good for an ambush as up.

This was not an ambush. Clearly.

And yet. Refusing was not a solution. Renard examined him as he climbed higher, too high to simply jump from the ground and latch on to his tail, and sighed.

At least banter, they could do. Their lips twitched back into a sharp grin, and they leapt up into the branch Donovan had landed on first. Still close enough not to be…too much of a problem.

“Are you sure?” Renard watched him, motionless, like a cat watches a bird. “I’d hate for you to fall out and crack that pretty head of yours.”