The forest stands tall and lush here; ancient trees reach weather-twisted arms to the sky, fighting monster-like storm clouds back with their interlacing fingers. Shadow seems to lurk everywhere you look, but it spills calmly, coolly, inspiring a sense of stealthy calm or protection rather than unease. That is, if you've forgotten what kind of creature might be stalking just out of sight...Abendrot is a land cradled by the dark woods on all sides; in the center, some of the larger trees stay behind to reveal a small plateau - a citadel where this pack can gather and defend itself from invaders. There are, of course, softer sides to the land. Clearings here and there allow the sun to throw down its rays in incongruously resplendent gold showers. Ignore the lingering scents of blood spattered here and there along the borders: those do not concern you. The river on one edge of the territory is playful enough when it hasn't been gorged by violent rain. You can choose to note the ragged claw marks raked down tree trunks and the forest floor as friendly "Home Sweet Home" signs, if you wish.

All who treasure loyalty, order, victory, and the occasional indulgence of raw visceral pleasure are welcome, once they've been approved by the ever-watchful eyes of Abendrot's Alpha. But keep one thing in mind: no matter what your motive, this is not a fool's Paradise. This is the land of soldiers, assassins, and spies. This is ABENDROT.

Make up your mind quickly and prepare to prove your worth. You wouldn't want to add to those blood spatters, would you...?

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Fathomless black eyes looked upon Fallacy’s pastel form approvingly, noting with silent satisfaction how the weapon managed to show up precisely when she was needed most. “I feel almost guilty for what I have in mind, Novacula,” he began thoughtfully, projecting his voice to a degree where the rest of the pack could easily catch his words. “Your efficiency is nothing if not legendary, yet the idea of a swift end for this perpetrator vexes me somewhat. I believe . . . torment would be more appropriate. Something painful. Drawn out.” The King paused, dark gaze now sweeping the assembled faces before him. They all called for blood—but would they be satisfied with the means Kershov planned to follow? Did they share his twisted sense of justice? Or did they thirst for an immediate, proficient execution? Honestly, Ker craved for the foolish brute’s suffering; though the ivory warrior was not averse to instant gratification, he couldn’t help but desire some sadistic tundra revenge on the sorry cur that had harmed his property. He wanted this criminal to rot with anxiety and paranoia. He wanted his living tool Fallacy to carve deep emotional and mental wounds upon this unfortunate soul until he wanted to kill himself, and only then would Abendrot descend mercifully down to pick him apart bone by bone, until every spy, soldier, and assassin had a piece.

That is what Ker planned to ask Fallacy to do . . . so long as no one opposed the plan. The alabaster dragon might claim tyrannical supremacy in all other matters; however, the safety of his property was up for a vote. The pack would decide what was best for the pack in this case.

“Stalk him. Watch him.” As Kershov issued the decree, he began to walk among his military, searching their faces for any sign of dissent or distress. “Follow his every move. Haunt his dreams. Steal his kills. Let him know no peace in his waking moments, and no rest when he sleeps. Destroy him, Fallacy, but leave a few scraps for us to enjoy.” A serrated smile split Kershov’s mask in half, every bit as demonic as his intentions. “As for the rest of you . . . if we agree on this course of action, I suppose you are free to carry on your duties.”




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