During the day, sentries guard the sleeping. When the sky is dark and the moon dances with the stars, this is when the real fun begins. Munashii Gekko's forest is the only haunt where you can find your local misfits all in one place. A land of the forbidden and forgotten, a place that is riddled with dangers of a whole different kind. The wolves here have long misplaced their rightful minds, and now live like creatures damned to prowl and lurk through the night. It's easy to lose yourself here, sanity was sure to fade away and wither; there was never anything normal about this nefarious nest. The silent threats that whispered in the breeze were enough to deter even the largest of demons around. It was not strength nor wit that ensured your survival here with Eric, and challengers would be torn down with a morose lethality - there was nothing left in his cold blue eyes that promised mercy to anyone who dared to overstep their worth. So, would you give up the sun for the moon and stars? Do you have enough vigor to become a well regarded sentry? - Put on a game face to step up and pass the sepia king's test or turn and leave before he catches your scent. You never know who wants to snack on your delicious blood in this forest.

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IF ICE COULD BURN [CHALLENGE]
IP: 65.185.186.110

Like the deathly breath of a tundra winter, the arctic dragga moved through the hibernating forest--unhurried, merciless, and with a certain aura that screamed of a slow and inescapable death to any that crossed his path. He carried his colossal, war-torn body effortlessly past jagged indigo shadows barred prison-like on skeletal trees; his pelt, when he stalked under a shard of December moonlight, glittered ice-white in spikes along his spine and broad scarred shoulders and neck; he left giant, but shallow tracks where he stepped--marks as formidable as those of a bear but delicate, too, betraying a grace inherent in all snow-born wolves; his breath smoked faintly in the cold, sending ghastly spectres before his ruined maw. All the while, never straying from his forward path, the frigid brute's eyes glinted. It seemed as if those eyes (if one could call them eyes, and not the essence of heartless cruelty solidified into two obsidian hard gems) took what little celestial light there was shining on the forest, and swallowed it whole.

After travelling for days without distraction, Kershov abruptly paused, body all at once still, waiting, his magnificent plume lowering as his sculpted cranium rose higher in concentration. His hackles lifted; his ears stood at attention. He was not alone.

"Show yourself," Kershov growled. His voice was chilling, soft as snowfall on a grave. Not the guttural bass one would expect from a male of his enormous build. "It's best you leave your hiding place now, before I rip you out of it."

Just ahead, a cluster of dead branches quivered and cracked; another male emerged, a sizable timber wolf of grey pelt and golden orbs. Kershov pinned this new opponent with the force of his deep black eyes with their alien arctic slant, not bothering to step forward into a pool of starshine, preferring rather to keep his ice-demon's mask obscured in shadow.

"Not many wolves would have been able to detect me . . . I'm upwind of you . . . how did--"

"My eyesight is as good as any wolf's at midnight," Kershov interrupted smoothly. Now his banner curled arrogantly over his spine. "The tracks leading to your spot are fresh, and to be honest, the wind cannot completely hide your scent."

The other male bared his teeth; his display of aggression merely elicited a low chuckle from Kershov. Bring it on, sikla.

"What are you doing around these parts? You don't have a packscent . . ." The timber wolf tried to understand Kershov's wild musk, still faintly perfumed with the boys of his old gang but nothing like the established packs of Blossom.

Kershov cocked his head, a seismic rumble in his narrow chest. "I've traveled down from the mountains to win a new pack. What is your purpose?"

The enemy male's startled look and silence told Kershov that he was looking at his competition. Soundlessly, the arctic dragga lunged. In a brief, horrifying flash, moonlight illuminated his entire face . . . the right side of his muzzle had been ripped into a jagged gash exposing his teeth in a permanent, bloodthirsty grin. A forever-snarling phantom.

His opponent screamed. Once. By the time the grey male had opened his mouth in defense, Kershov's macabre smile was already at his throat. The frost-formed brute clamped down with ferocious jaws--shook--and dropped the grey dragga gasping in the snow. Red painted Kershov's feathery white fur. His soulless jet eyes gleamed.

"That wound isn't fatal. I just don't want your pitiful bark interrupting my Challenge Howl when I find the pack boarder." Kershov's tongue snaked from the ravaged side of his maw to clean blood from the bridge of his nose. With one last glance at his bleeding foe, the tundra male pivoted around and continued. Strong pack musk colored the frozen night air. Briefly, Kershov wondered if he should have broken the other brute's legs . . . then he laughed quietly. As if the damn fool would come after him, after one look at his face . . .

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