The first day the Darkbringer arrived back in Molodian had been anticlimactic. Well, it had been slightly interesting when he had chanced upon Auri before Zephyr had arrived to ruin the one-on-one. Whatever demons plagued the white wolf, well, Blackthorne was most assuredly one of them. His marks dotted the male all over and in the days since that strange encounter, he had all but begun to salivate in the hopes of something new and interesting. Waiting for Nyteshade to dig his poisoned talons into the backbone of Molodian was a test in patience that the Darkbringer was lacking. In his youth, he had waited, planned, plotted, recruited. It was why he had taken over Iromar so easily and seamlessly, despite the cries of outrage, despite the sundering of families.

They called him wicked, evil, but he had not killed them. It was the threat, the way cruelty shone from his charcoal eyes when he delivered them – the had known that he was not a liar. Not when it came to such threats, such things as power.

In those days, he had them flock to him. The abandoned, the forgotten, the wicked and lost – he had given them a home and he had given them a purpose. What was life without a purpose? Without the need to fulfill something? Slowly he would find them all, piece them together, re-purpose them.

He moved northward, away from the fields near Glorall, where he had met the night before with Matianak. His sister had given him a wealth of information. When he had yet again skirted the edges of Diveen he had felt a sense of disquiet and surprise. The normal vicious tug towards Azariah had not come; before he had paced the borders, gnashing his teeth, ready to take the lightning girl because she was his. Now he felt… nothing. It was odd, but Blackthorne would not allow such disquiet to take over his being.

Onward he went, the sun rising, the heat increasing. Even he took to the shade, panting slightly as a heatwave seemed to roll into the valley. The river drew him, as it did many animals, for he crept upon a few smaller creatures who scattered in his wake. One such rabbit was unlucky, too gorged on water to move swiftly, and his teeth snapped it’s neck before it got more than a leap away. Blackthorne carried the rabbit towards the water, dropping it abruptly as he caught the scent of the woodland nymph from before. He had not caught her name but he knew her to be nearby, likely hidden like before, tiny as she was.
He was about to go search for her but froze when Beltane appeared across the river. She seemed distracted, talking to the air, and he grinned. Beltane was a witch. A rather fascinating one, though she had not prophesied anything drastic when he had last seen her.

Blackthorne slides forward until he stands at the very edge of the water, smooth voice reaching across the gentle rumble of water. ”What is it you wish me to ask, Beltane?” A wicked smirk crosses his maw as he stares at her, waiting for recognition once more.