Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
What seems like eons ago now, Crevan had been born in a dark, damp hole beneath the bloodied roots of a redwood in the once-kingdom Taiga. He’d only known that other horses existed because his birth-twin was one; a plain horse with no other shape locked inside. That was then, though, and this was now. Those memories of claws digging into muffled earth and finding the den of rabbits were his home - not this Forest, not the outer reaches of Sylva where he’d once been an asset, not even this world, Beqanna.
He had no place in time or purpose to live anymore, with the fear of death so empty in his heart and the prospect of age unwritten from his bones.
Pack calls to pack, Sinner was telling true, but he knows that what calls the hellhound innately to him is something much darker, much more sinister.
We agents of hell must stick together, after all.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, freak.” Crevan replies, holding his position steady at the expected arrival of the gargantuan demon. The taupe fur along his own crest and nape stands rigid; the only semblance of a warning he’ll give. His companion was thoughtful enough to forewarn, though his size and distinct look gave Crevan reason to believe such an action was altogether unnecessary. There was nothing to fear on his end anyways, unless the other was a true magician.
“What little rock did you slink out from under?” He tries, unable to rip his gaze from the burning cinders set inside the darker wolf’s skull.
@[Sinner]