Hushed Willows he walks on the thorny warpath to the heavens

the morning is warm and the light salty brine of the sea that wafts from the coast mixes and mingles pleasantly in the air. vilkas draws in the scents: partially of earth, partially of weeping willows and partially of the sea to gleam the information he seeks: the territory is uninhabited. thus far he's pointedly went out of his way to avoid habited territories and the packs that claim them. currently, he seeks better knowledge of this foreign land. it's important for any wolf to have at least a very basic grasp of the region, especially warriors and that was something he'd deigned to drill into the cub's heads. there was a distinct difference between mercenary and scout, yes; but there were many times the two trades overlapped. a warrior needed to wise and sometimes it was more wise to implore stealth and ambush one's opponent rather than confront in head to head combat. especially if disadvantages heavily outweighed the advantages. that happened. there was no such thing as an indomitable wolf.

a soft half snort, half laugh escaped the youngest whitemane's parted jowls as he weaves through the long, writhing boughs of the willows. damn, he missed the jorrvaskr's rugrats. there would be new generations born already but the nord doesn't regret his decision to leave. his path diverted from theirs.

there is a snap of a broken twig under foot and vilkas' steps cease abruptly, his ears cup forth to attention atop his skull, the wispy hairs at his nape bristle in time with the flare of his black, leathery nostrils and upwards tilt of his muzzle as he attempts to discern by scent if the sound came from prey or a fellow predator.