Ocean's Breath Plateau until his feet bleed and

wintersbane isn't overly surprised to hear it confirmed that he had, indeed, sounded like an ass but he is surprised to find that she doesn't appear to be overly offended by it. "i'm not, nor was i ever, a guardian," the tundrian replies. "i'm a warrior." perhaps there wasn't a whole lot of difference in the inherent trades: both required fighting skills but the truth was there was plenty of difference to stress the distinction. wintersbane thought of guardians as the wolves who were more loyal and devoted than him: they had to have roots as their trade revolved around the protection of the pack itself and it's borders. they were the defense. but the warriors? they could afford to be more loose with their loyalties and their skills could benefit the highest bidder, in the end. they were the offense. they didn't need to plant roots.

"i protect nothing." he tells her in a voice that is almost hushed. he had no land, he had no pack. he'd like to have both of his own someday. he thirsts for the power of calling himself 'alpha' the way a dehydrated man thirsts for water under the searing heat of the desert. but as he'd thought previously and as he is inclined to remind himself: he recognizes that he's not ready for any position of actual leadership. not while he has no experience, not while the thought of planting roots and attempting to settle down so soon after the first failed attempt causes him to balk. "one day," wintersbane begins, pausing to draw his salmon pink tongue across his lips. "i will stake claim to a territory for myself. build my own pack." that was the ultimate goal: the endgame. to build and nurture and nourish a empire pack. for now, he is inclined to focus on more local goals, but that doesn't mean he can't do a little reconnaissance while he bids his time.

having a roughly drafted plan, even if it is premature never hurt, he thinks.