style="padding: 0px; position: relative; right: 80px; top: 66px; width: 220px; height: 360px; z-index: 2; overflow: auto;">
500+
They day had become brighter than the usual overcast days, but the sun had not yet been allowed to penetrate the clouds. And so the world lay still within that world of half-lights plagued by shadows. And yet, even if the sun were to have the strength, night would still exist to harbor those shadows. And Corvus lingered within that day’s dim light, a flaw within the terrain. His mind lingered upon his daughter, or at least what his daughter symbolized to him. The god that he followed had told him—that bloodline offered to him something much more that his spawns. But Graine had failed. Cwmfen would not, lest she desired the same fate. A sneer. As if she had a choice. But Chance was a part of that game, and it was always moving against her, just as the world was moving toward entropy.
The pied brute stalked silently through the lands, his silence incredible for his size. It was no wonder from where Cwmfen had received her grace. And yet, the grace upon this male seemed ethereal and eerie, as if he were made of something else—something like the shadows. He breathed, expelling that black air that sought to infect those about him with cold, deadly tendrils. And yet he was alone, as he always was, as he always would be for there could be no other way. But his heart did not hunger as the hearts of others did, and his soul was an empty void that did not need to be filled save for with the darkness. It moved through him like the black waters of some taciturn world. And so the pied brute moved through this world as a passing shadow, the black eyes piercing the world with their fathomless ferocity. Sadistic curiosity, if such a thing could be called that, was all that moved him. And he moved now to the pack that had been carried upon the scent of his daughter.
The crow wolf’s maw was pressed upon the earth as if those cruel jaws threatened to destroy the life that would soon thrived upon that dirt. The shadows that lingered there reached out to stroke that maw, only to withdraw as he moved out of reach. The shadows hissed in protest, their wind a whine as the black eyes beheld a form ahead. She seemed to lie just beyond that invisible barrier. The male lowered his maw, sniffing at that scent again, believing that he recognized to whom it belonged. And then he was moving again, a flowing wraith of darkness. The empty facet lifted as he found again that form. Silently, the male breathed in the scent of that thing, recognizing only the scent of the pack. A cold sneer tugged at his lips, but in vain. And then, with that silence of killers, the male reclined upon the sinewy haunches, waiting with a patience that belied mortals. And he waited in his silence for that thing to notice, for that thing to begin the game.