Foreboding

"Where is that Weavile," the Bouffalant breathed angrily, staring out the window, watching the snow drift to the ground. It had been quite sometime since he seen his partner, a day at least. Despite his anger, there was a hint of worry within his eyes. He huffed, adjusting the scarf around his neck.

He had business to do. He couldn’t hold onto the Weavile’s hand like a child anymore. Time was wounding down much too fast for his liking. Progress needed to be shown by the end of year. Indeed there was progression as well as setbacks. Though all those errands he ran should have pleased them enough to keep them off his hide for once again.

A quiet knock on the front door disturbed his musings. Cautious, he peered through the small hole before stepping back, surprised by the visitor.

"Why are you here?" He questioned through his teeth, tension in the air. The sharpness in tone spoke for itself.

"We need to talk," a feminine voice stated, persisent.

"I have no business with you or your group anymore. I thought we made that clear when we last spoke some years ago," he snapped. He saw the visitor visibly flinch at his callousness but he hardly cared. He wanted her out of his sight.

"I’m sorry," her voice containing a hint of hurt within. The mysterious female straightened up, all hint of weakness effectively gone. "But you have no choice in the matter." She crouched down slipping a letter under the door before marching away.

He hesitated, staring at the letter. He knew the neat cursive handwriting on it from anywhere. He purged his lips, gathering it close.

"It’s time then…"