Jackdaw hadn't been quite right after his time in Iromar dealing with Aranck but then again, Israfel hadn't the slightest clue on what had transpired. All he knew is that Jackdaw had taken the wolf to Iromar and then suddenly, that wolf had become the king. It didn't add up but Israfel hadn't been able to bring it up with his mentor. Whenever had had meant to, it just didn't feel right and so, he had admitedly kept his distance. Did he feel bad? A little actually. He had never seen Jackdaw like that but still, Irafel figured it'd do no good to dwell upon something like that. Besides, the end of summer was fast in its approach and the ominous air had inspired within him the desire to remind the other wolves of Moladion that maybe - just maybe - things weren't all that they seemed.

He had met with a peculiar girl, Beltane, in Asteraia during his travels. She had assured him that she would have a tale to tell, his own enough to inspire hers it seemed. With that, he had secured the finale to his story, a fact that seemed to keep his smug smile alive for days. It had sent him to the other packs too - their borders, at least - with a howl to let it be known to others: in a week, they ought to come to the forest. There was news to be shared, information to be had and tales to be told. With the rise of the full moon, they would gather beneath the shadows of the forests' canopy to share and be shared with. It was an opportunity to learn, he figured, and an opportunity to garner the trust and renown of others. How did they say it? Two birds with one stone.

The path had been laid out; from the fields and the valley, he had traversed the days before. Every few yards, he had risen to scratch at the trees, a trail to follow lest they become lost. He had left his paw prints deep and obvious in the dry dirt, rubbing his fur along the trees to lead them further and further into the woods. Eventually, they would be able to find him in the clearing, a patch of forest where the trees had been felled by the storms prior; logs and branches criss crossed over one another, twisted ladders and crevices to climb and hide within. He had dragged, with great effort, a rather intact log into the centre, a pedestal of sorts.

As the night fell, the sky was alight in the red light of the evening. The moon had begun to rise, grand and round as its face glared down through the canopy. Crickets chirped, the arid wind rustling the dry leaves. In the distance, the wind howled and shrill whistles echoed as the far off summer storms slid over Glorall's borders. A perfect evening, something Israfel was proud of as he took his position in the center of the clearing. His shadow grew tall and dark as he stood atop the log, his fur rustled and dusted with the dirt and leaves of the forest; he wanted to look ghostly, his pale fur silver in the moon.

When a group had gathered or when he had been able to spot weary, curious eyes in the dark of the forest, he grinned, a toothed thing as he issued them a singular question: "Have you heard about the monster darker than any night, deadlier than any storm or famine?"