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.

I pop in here to avoid checker

Mountainwoman. 

She'd begun to call herself such after the mountains she hailed from, the once-thriving Mount Frostcrest. Now Meylodi hardly felt like a member of her own family, and always watched by her mate that never seemed far from her. It rattled down the dark woman's spine and into the earth, how he constantly watched the woman he married.

Despite knowing she was as hardheaded as a bison and as quick of wit as a snake. Maybe she was the one growing unwise. Her rounded belly meant she didn't travel far from @Void or last year's litter. But away she stole for half a day, anyway, her pale-pelted @Raen ever following in her mother's pawsteps and hot on her trail.

Ah wish ye didn', wolflin' - yer hardly moar dan a gerl- but she digressed- it wasn't worth arguing. 

Life didn't make much sense, did it?

the secrets of blackfeather — ingram notes as the sounds of approaching footfalls grow nearer, coupled as it was with words in a heavy accent — would have to wait.

the hellhound is disappointed; immediately and sullenly. still, he makes an effort not to let it sour his mood, for what little good it did.

his steps cease, body swinging in the direction of the approaching wolves: one rotund, dark pelaged, scarred. older. the other younger and pale pelted. yin and yang.

ingram lets out a low chuff of greeting.

pping Raen because i can

Aye dere, stranga! the pale youngster greeted in turn. 

Her mother, however, was less than thrilled, but it wasn't as if Raen was small enough to be carried. Still don't got 'erself a Frostcrest's scar. The both of them were large enough to scare off most who dared try and fight, surely. 

As she said. Gree'in's. mountainwoman held her head high.

the child greets him first; speaking in a thick honey weighted accent that immediately makes ingram question the parent in question. despite that the child was nearing ( or at, even ) what ingram assumed would be her full height. at least, he assumes the woman is the girl's mother. did everyone let their children greet strangers in dark woods first? was that common?

though a sire of children but never a father himself, he didn't know.

still, he judged.

ingram almost had to remind himself that he had chuffed in greeting first. but now his mood, even mercurial, had shifted. what brings you to blackfeather woods? ingram cannot help but ask because it wasn't as if it was a pleasant place. covered in choking shadows and filled to the brim with ghosts and dark magic ... this place clearly not one that any sane wolf would take a pleasant stroll through.

or at least, that was ingram's opinion of it, despite that he was drawn to it and unperturbed by the dark magics and wailing ghosts this place cradled close.