Drooping Willows we were born sick

April 1st; Mid-afternoon; Freezing fog; 5 ° F, -15 ° C

The afternoon when Skoll had awoken from his usual daytime nap had been unexpected. An eerie, heavy fog that bit and stung at the eyes and nose greeted him as he rose from his resting place atop the place where he had buried his Nonna Skana. Stretching his swarthy limbs, he moved forward, head low and tail level with his spine. The lands of Willow Ridge had become rank with a noxious odor that made his muzzle wrinkle, even as he snorted to rid his snout of it. He sneezed then straightened himself up as best as he could.

He would get used to it Eventually...

Picking his way through the willows, he started running about the borders, traversing them as best as he could without scent markers as his guide. He would go looking for Piety later but, for now, he was on a mission to make the last of the daylight hours absolutely worth it. There was an itching in his bones and a burning need in his throat and he was going to take care of it.

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By the time Skoll had returned from his evening romp, his muzzle was bloodied and the weight of his footsteps were heavy. Just once did he let a growl slip past his crimson-adorned lips, ducking his head down as he continued along Elettra's footsteps. A sadistic grin settled on his reddened features once more as Angier Lyall's scent was now nowhere to be found on this side of the Drooping Willows, his mother's homestead. His ghost gray irises glinted in the darkness as he stopped in his tracks to savor the moment.

Then, as if possessed by a power so unnatural and sinister, he threw his dark crown back and pointed his muzzle to the sky in a spine-chilling howl...

An eerie power had gripped the young Harbinger boy and made him move in directions he wished not to see. For reasons unknown, a sinister calling through the air begged his attention and his eyes narrowed. What was this strange power gripping over him? The slightly psychopathic boy's mind was up in the air as he stared at the ruins of what once remained of a lush land. His ash-coated fur bristled slightly in the disgusting breeze that smelled of rotting carcasses. Carefully he would follow tracks, though he felt as if he had no control of his body. "And the chaos ensues." The yearling would mutter these words under his breath as his sadistic smile grew across his face and through his mind. He would raise his head and howl to the sky in response to the call before.

Fiends, demons, and no God to be seen caused his mind to curdle as he thought about everything. Loki, the harbinger of souls, was here to collect the lives of those who deserved to go. The lands were unfamiliar to him as havoc and chaos stretched across them. The Spirits had left the area leaving him and his brothers to do all of the fun work. Famine. Plague. Death. War. They were taking over and he had claimed the poor soul that would aid him from guiding wolves from this world to the next. Well... one of his claimed ones that was. His eyes held an eerie glow as he pressed on through the greenish-hued mist.

The smell of blood was quick to reach her nostrils, even from up high in the wind. She let out a loud cry. For blood to be spilled this late in the day could only spell a couple of things: that War had succeeded in their feats for combat, that Plague had managed to drive the local creatures into a frenzy with some blood-borne disease, or that Death was up to something... something atrocious enough to need mortal slaughtering or butchery... Her pupil-less eyes narrowed at the sound of an unsettling howl and the call that had answered it soon after. If she did not check it out at all then, between the four of them, there was going to be hell to pay.

Down, down, down she went, circling through the Drooping Willows until she came upon the sight of two wolves. She landed with the sort of grace that one might expect of a poised, well-trained creature. She stormed up to the two beasts, whose lanky framed towered over her like spindly saplings. A few clicks of her beak ought to have done the trick, along with a steel-eyed glare.

"CAWWWW CAWW," she harshly croaked at them. You imbecile, what do you think you're doing?! Her gaze flit from the ash-furred yearling to the other, whose maw was decorated in vermillion and scarlet hues. She didn't even want to wait for a reply, but whatever Death was doing, it better be good - "good" as in the sense that, for full effect, it continued to spread their reign of terror over the mortal lands of Relic Lore. A jolt of energy brought her skyward, her wings initially clipping the side of the silver-eyed yearling's face. She circled around to swoop down and swat the other wolf's head with the tips of her wing feathers before leaving the scene altogether with another whooping call. When the four of them met up again in the near future, she hoped War and Plague would find Death's supposed antics beneficial at the very least...

Skoll, who was very much jaded, blinded by the surge of power he felt pulsing in his veins perked up at the sound of another answering to his call. It brought before him a kindred spirit, one he did not recognize but deemed familiar all the same. What came roaming through the lands, just within sight was another wolf, another yearling, perhaps; but, before he could even pick up his feet, to intercept the other, he was stopped by the sudden emergence of a raven, whose stark black feathers brought with it the reek of a thousand deaths.

It outright scolded him and the wolf flashed his teeth at her in reply, having somehow understood her avian squawks. Imbecile, she had called him before questioning and outright attacking him before making her leave. She even had the gall to 'smack' him upside the head with her wing.

He lifted his lips in an offended scowl - even as she came around to hit the other nearing yearling - staring daggers into her retreating form until she could no longer be seen through the willow branches. When his gaze returned to the earth, they settled on the other wolf. "Did you hear what she said?!" he asked loudly, clearly seething from the simple encounter. "You think she'll be back soon?"

A number of steps brought him slowly closer to the canine, his fur remained bristled and his tail was kept high above his rump. When his next set of words came from him, it was uttered with suspicion and an eagerness for malice and everything but malarkey, "Where did you even come from and what shall we do?"....

The Harbinger of death snickered when the other soul came over. He felt as if he recognized this soul but he could not place a name. "I doubt she will return. Famine is weak which is why she starves the foolish wolves." The bitter spirit muttered as he looked about. His pale cold fur blew like brittle and fragile paper in the breeze. "I came from hell." His answer was slightly sarcastic with a hint of aggressiveness as he stared down the other yearling. Yes, souls and hell and everything that was sweet to his ears like a perfect harmony. He would ask what they should do and carefully an answer was considered. "I believe there are more lives to claim, wouldn't you agree?" The words were raised as more of a demand than an offer.

He had never been one to play by the rules.

Sometimes Death, or at least this part of death, wished that he could find war. War always led to plenty of those to claim as his own. A growl rose in his throat as he crossed the borders of Willow Ridge in the search of some hell to raise. No pun intended. The Loki that use to be in this body and mind was gone, suppressed to the back of the brain while the eerie and mysterious Death took his time to play around with this mind and attributes. Would this other strange ethereal follow suit and succumb to the darkness as they both had already? Death was ready for the crimson water to drip off of his maw and splatter the ground no matter where they went.

"I doubt she will return. Famine is weak which is why she starves the foolish mortals," the other said. Skoll sneered in response. What had he been thinking? Of course, she wouldn't return. Like the kindred soul had said, Famine was weak. His lips cracked into a smug grin, shooting the other hellion a knowing look. Then, another obvious came. He had come from hell. It was as if something within had taken root and blossomed from his very core. Sarcastic or not, the answer had struck a chord. In all austerity, it was familiar and something he easily recognized as his own tongue and vocabulary.

The other ghostly presence presented another question, another train of thought, a suggestion for a like-minded companion: "I believe there are more lives to claim, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," he hissed back. His silver-toned eyes taking on an eerie glow. "What shall we do?" The inquiry was brought up with genuine curiosity, one that made his darkened brow and large, pointy black ears rise up. His black banner of a tail waved, but he did not wait for the other fiendish brute to answer. "And which way are you going?" A mischievous grin settled on his bloodied maw, "Whichever direction you go, I'll head the opposite way."

"BUT," he emphasized the word with a threatening growl. "You STAY AWAY from here, this is my territory. The wolves here are mine to meddle with..." Another snarl lifted from him with a flash of his tainted teeth a sullied tongue, an ethereal mist rising from his throat with his every word. "The wolves of Willow Ridge will pay for their sins when I'm through with them."