The battlefield was no stranger to visitors, but it was a stranger to the flame prince. He had heard of it - wolves coming here to test their strength, increase their skills in martial arts, or simply bask in the echoes of the violence left behind in this place. It wasn't surprising to hear a call break the eerie quiet as he explored, though the sharpness of this bark gave him a pause. It wasn't a challenge but something that demanded acknowledgement, and that alone was enough to pique his interest.
Two ravens circled overhead, their cries cutting through the autumn air as Balrog adjusted the obsidian dagger at his side. The dark plates of his bracers glinted faintly as he moved, his strides measured but deliberate. He knew the kind of wolves drawn to this place; they came looking for something, whether it was strength or blood.
The source of his call soon came into view - a young, wiry wolf with an axe in tow. Balrog's obsidian eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the tense set of the stranger's shoulders and the rough expression carved into his face. He stopped about ten feet away, his voice easily carrying over the wind.
"Looks like I'm not the only one out here seeking violence," Balrog said, his tone calm but laced with a hint of amusement. The ravens settled nearby, their dark forms perching on half buried bones of those that had fallen. "You know how to use that axe?"
His gaze lingered on the stranger's weapon before meeting his eyes. "Name is Balrog," he said, the weight of his presence holding a quiet intensity even in his neutral stance. "I'm ready when you are."
