Soon the games would begin. It had been decided even though the Darkbringer had yet to hear back from his whelp. Nyteshade had pranced off into the unknown heart of Molodian as a news seeker then disappeared like smoke. It seemed a common theme in this god-awful place. How many nooks and crannies could a wolf hide in? The Darkbringer was determined to find out in his hunt for his missing loyalists and sister. It was not a matter of taking back power from a pack. A land was a land and for the moment he had no desire to be dominant over one.

He instead had other chaotic plans. This place had been upended. The old fled, the new arrived, yet the place was bare bones and full of nostalgic wolves who needed reminding that they were still alive.

For now.

It is one reason he has taken to staying in the fields near Iromar or roaming into the grotto or even along the border of Glorall. Glorall, Diveen, Iromar. They were the southern most packs and all three held a link to his past. Birth, power, loss of control. He had scented the female stench of Avery along the borders and he had met the female once in passing, he thinks, though she had not stuck out in his mind. He had been occupied by others, in any event, but he had toyed with the idea of visiting the moorland once more. Seeking out Adrian who, no doubt, remained tucked away, more devoted to the land than the wolves.

It is by divine luck that he just happens to spy the dark form of Avery as she slips from Iromar. He is not certain at first if that is who she is so he leaps from the rock that he has been perched on and moves to intercept. Blackthorne is sleek and fluid in his movements. He did not rest and become catatonic in his time away. It had been eventful, full of fights and hunger and dominance, and the small scars across his muzzle, forehead, and neck are proof enough of that if one were to look close enough.

It does not detract from his features for he takes after his grandfather, Enderly, in all his handsome glory. The moment she pauses, closing her eyes, he lopes closer. Blackthorne does not mask his sound, knowing she will react to the rush of dead grass crunching under his paws, and his charcoal eyes pin her as he nears, pausing a few feet away expressionless. ”Avery of Iromar…. Bored of ruling yet?” The last is said with a sort of gleeful tone, a cunning look on his face as his lips twitch into his trademark smirk with one fang poking out. ”You seem tired, Queen, the weight of the crown can be a heavy burden.”