Silverlight Terrace feral roots

The blizzard had come as a surprise. While it snowed year round on the highest peaks of Moonspear, rarely did it fall at this time of year so heavily, and so far from the slopes they called home. It didn't make for suitable weather to travel, but Lyra was still in an agitated state, recent events only serving to make it worse.

Oh, she had been ever so eager to spill the blood of that whore, Zafina.

The witch had shown blatant disrespect to her parents without even speaking word to them; her crime much more serious than any verbal threat. However when the two thirds of the Cerberus went to exact their punishment, she was nowhere to be found. She had fled. An anticlimactic end and the promise of violence torn from their grasp left Lyra with a longing which would not be satiated easily.

So she stalked the surrounding territories of Moonspear like a spectre, trying to find Zafina's scent through the thick blanket of snow. The once peaceful and bright hills of the terrace had taken on an almost desolate feel as the entire area was enshrouded in grey, becoming a frozen wasteland stretching out for miles in every direction. The winds tugged at her dark coat and snow stung her nose. Lyra knew her efforts were in vain, but the activity kept the restlessness at bay, at least for the moment.

As she pressed on further north, she swore she felt eyes upon her (not all that unusual considering who her sister was), but the faint bark confirmed her suspicions. Hackles raised, she quickly spun in a tight semi circle, squinting as she could just make out the dark form of a male in the fog. As he came closer, she relaxed slightly, her narrowed features softening into a look of curiousity. "Oh, Dirge," she breathed, the words no doubt getting swept away by the winds. What was he doing out here?