It had taken him only a few meandering hours to get from the heart of the woodlands down southeast into the fields of Ruieze. The height of spring, with the swaying sunflowers, mixed with various vegetation. By the time he made it through, he surmised he would have a bundle full of burrs stuck in his sleek coat. There would be time enough later to fix that. Time to plan, to plot, to gather intelligence, and much more, but he was not ready for that. The very scents of the land seemed to mix. They energized him; the further he delved into the heart of Molodian, the smoother his steps. The suaver his smirk became.

This was his element and he was hungry for it.

He had announced his arrival with a quick call in the noon sun in the woodlands and gotten a decent response, yet he wondered how far south it had travelled. Thus far he hadn’t heard any outraged howls demanding restitution. Had they died? Grown complacent? Forgotten the sound of his voice? Maybe they had grown fat on peace. It would be fitting for his claws to disembowel them, to watch that peace slip out across the earth.

The scent of Diveen makes him pause as dusk begins to fall over the land. It is stale, old, but the same. He can feel her distantly, the one of lightning. A curl of his lip is given in that direction. Not today; that was time enough for everything.

He passes by Diveen without another glance, meandering further into the encroaching darkness, until he spies the slinky figure through the tall grass. Blackthorne does not need her scent to know who approaches. It is her that he was searching for anyways, his mysterious and cunning sister. Matianak was like him – she craved chaos. She inspired it with words, he with fangs. The Darkbringer comes to a halt, his distinctive one-fanged grin appearing. ”Have you grown tame, Matianak? I hardly smell you anywhere in this place. Perhaps Eden has taken you as his newest lover? Craving a bit of the power?”