the crows had not yet dared his field.
soffinas stood beneath the skeletons of trees, all leafless and hunched with the weight of age. his body was obsidian, carved from storm and shadow, antlers like twisted ruin reaching toward a sky choked with dusk. the earth split beneath his hooves, not from malice but inevitability— he was a creature meant to break what he stepped upon.
his breath misted in the dying light, curling like spirits into the air. he grazed not out of need but ritual, tongue slow against blood-warmed roots, the grass flattened in reverence. and when a raven called overhead, he did not lift his head.