Greatwater Lake She’s betting on science

The Saints of the Dying Light.

Greyscale ears steeled themselves upon his crown, smoked fur swishing in gentle gasps of half-inspirited wind. Studious; dissecting. A queer prospect, it seemed – the man led by his umbrage, who in the face of threat sought to catapult himself blindly into combat, reigning as overseer. For all he had known, the silencer could not have been alone, and then the ignoramus Derg might lay still in mouldering earth. Perhaps, still, his passion was what inspired such rank; an unabating drive, perpetual bids for his own verdict of justice. Yet even alone, the svartell had been close - had almost torn the very soul from sepia chest.

Pity.

He watched the other man speak – did not flinch at invitation, spilling as liquid gold from betwixt stygian lips; that same gold as his stare, auric embers resolute in their plea. Of a canyon did he enounce – the den of his crowd, yet there was doubt in the mercenary’s skull that the grandmaster truly understood of what kind Aries was. He was no artless criminal, an outlaw in seek of certainty, no – he was a silencer, an executioner and assassin of the dark woods themselves. Perhaps Donovan had not been witness to the reign of blackfeather, the gore of their silent kingdom.

 “Perhaps not,” he hummed darkly, “but if I may ask, what are these perks?” His voice was steady, yet soundlessly tempestuous - the low rumble of thunder which henceforth may brew a storm.