Blacktail Deer Plateau since we last left off

the threadbones weave a grim prophecy.

the void veils clarity with it's writhing midnight ink, the soft hiss of the past commanders thrumming loud in his ears.

the threadbones play off his own worries; plaguing as they've been lately. off of his fury and disdain and hate.  these violent emotions seethe beneath his skin; ugly and burning.

consuming.

carefully, delicately, he tucks his threadbones away not interested in the dark, riddling picture they paint and stalks towards @Ash Paw's patient den. ingram does not near it — does not need to now that his peace has been spoken — but he keeps a keen eye on the ungracious it houses all the same.

except she is not there, her scent trail leading him on a path outside, towards the borders. he follows his pace quick, sure that she has not yet healed anywhere enough to be able to make a trip of any sort of lengthy magnitude. perhaps, he considers, ash paw was wrong about the severity of her wounds then.

ash paw he would question then once he was assured that the ungracious no longer plagued his lands. he follows her waning trail into the neutral territory for a while before he turns back with a low rumble. he is not sorry to see her go, but without any other assumption to be made about a realistic ability to leave given the seeming severity of her wounds leaves ingram to believe that his mage had exaggerated, had lied.

he would not know the difference between severe and superficial if bloody enough.

to further her rank?

it rankles him.

the disobedience, the waste of basilica's resources: of medicines and foods for a supposed threatened life that had not seemingly been so close to death's door. couldn't have been.

or perhaps, he considers with a cruel grin that lacked any and all mirth, the girl was a magick worker herself and could heal from impossible odds.

regardless, he crosses basilica's borders with all the power and anger of a brewing, violent storm: gutted by his assumptions.