Hideaway Strath What profit will we gain if we kill our brother and cover up his blood?

The giant welcomed him, to a point, but Gilead made his way alone. The air was thick here, inundated with what the pioneer would classify as a tainted quality he did not want to ingest; but he must, to some degree, become like the heathens nesting here. He must learn of them—for was that not his purpose? His Lord had sent him to this awful place where darkness took great solace, and Gilead would not allow himself to falter.
If only he could call upon the holy fire of his Lord! To burn away the trees and leave a great expanse behind, to scorch the shadows from the earth and uproot the emnity he found here. Gilead had no such power; he was a mortal only, listening for guidance through the whispers of light that managed to penetrate obscurity.

A matter quite unsettling happened the night before to the Mackenzie. At one point she fell asleep in her makeshift dugout in the heavily forested area of the Strath. Upon opening one steel eye during the course of the night, the Raven that followed her into the Wilds was on the ground before her snout watching her sleep with cold, beady eyes, unmoving. While she had grown used to the Raven’s atypical attraction to her months prior, this was the first time the Raven had done something very unusual in that manner.
 
On this day, the Acolyte took to a steady trot and stroll through the Strath. Briefly forgetting about the strange incident the night before, the Raven would remain her second shadow she could never escape as it soared from branch to branch in the canopy above, giving a shrill caw every now and then. There was no particular region she was aiming to roam through in the Strath, though she did suddenly come upon a presence she had not yet familiarized herself with.
 
A darkly grayed male that smelled of Donovan to almost a tee. His eyes were a dark yellow, darker than that of Nyra’s gaze. Her trot slowed to a stop once coming at a considerable distance. Her stance remained neutral. Before she was able to mutter a word, the Raven above perched onto a branch above the two dark wolves and decided to make the introduction on behalf of Zsuzsa instead by giving a loud, almost barking caw to the male.

Wolves often utilized avian companions, finding a synergy with the scavengers, but Gilead did not see the value of it; they could not be trusted utterly, could not be expected to work without some transaction taking form. They were greedy soulless things—heralds of the Shade, some have said—and when the hidden form of one such creature spotted him, called to him, Gilead was visibly startled.
He saw only darkness when he glared upon the trees; then the shards of silver ice—two pale eyes set in to a masculine face, dark as pitch. He thought for a moment the bird was an acolyte of the unholy Shade and that it had become a more recognizable form to speak with him; yet it was silent, cold, and watching.
Your pet? Gilead queried of the wolf, his jaw setting firmly as he gathered his wits.

The two wolves would learn upon this encounter they shared a similar sentiment regarding companions. There was a popular quote by Epictetus from the Discourses lore of the two-legs that Zsuzsa recalled her father saying (as he was big into stoicism himself), “Anything that can be prevented, taken away, or coerced is not a person’s (in this case, canine’s) own, but those things that can’t be blocked are their own.” She had always been an agent of free-will. ”Not by any means.” She confirmed coolly, shaking her head.
 
There was a heavy snort to follow from her snout. ”You wouldn't happen to experience one of your own at some point?” Zsuzsa inquired, her steel eyes glancing above in the trees at the Raven that now intently observed in silence, monitoring the male with a disdainful stare. So far, this Raven did more disservice than anything. Ruining hunts, creating noise in the background, being an unneeded distraction overall.