for some reason that wintersbane cannot identify, he does not stop when he draws near the towering spear that moonspear claims. he’s told several wolves it was where he would go when asked now that the door to sagtannet is firmly closed to him …and yet something tugs him wayward despite that. in truth, he knows no explanation for the spontaneity of the decision to venture coastward. not to himself and not to anyone else.
a chill nips at his thick pelage, coarse and fluffy with his wintercoat. in many ways, the tundrian looks forward to winter as a reprieve from the heat that has plagued the summerlands. he is grateful for the changing of the seasons, the subtle transition to climates more agreeable with his tundrian ancestry. the salty tang of sea air sticks to him, floating ‘round him in greeting as his pace begins to slow; nearing pack borders.
he doesn’t recognize it …though there is, maybe, something passively familiar about it; but nothing concrete enough to spark forth any true recognition. their numbers smell small …much smaller than the bolstering numbers of the spear, scented upon the wind as it carried down from the spear.
for a moment wintersbane considers but knows the choice has been made in his mind as he lifts his muzzle and lets out a low howl, announcing his presence.
it didn’t take long for someone to appear …but this pack wolf did not extend any sort of greeting to him; not even a chuff. glacial gaze splices thru the air to study her, unsure what he is to make out of her lingering and staring. would his mood’ve been more jovial, would he have been the jesting type: wintersbane might’ve joked that he knew he wasn’t handsome but that she did not have to stare; he, however, is and does not.
thankfully, he does not have to ponder the silent, monochrome woman’s strangeness for two long as someone else appears and this woman, draped in a pelage of warm cinnamon and creams does address him. glacial gaze moves to her then, assuming her to be a leader as he dips his head in a display of respect and difference, melting the previously neutral posture he previously held. rusalka. erzulie.
i am wintersbane,
he introduces himself in his smoky timbre, the soft rasp of scarred throat and scarred vocal chords never again to croon the richness of velvet; instead cursed to murmur the rough and rasping melody of whiskey as it burns on the way down. and i’m in search of a home.
for the last time, he hopes. he’s spent too much of his life unsettled, sometimes of his own making and sometimes because life is cruel and sees to divert his path; this time, he's made up his mind, he was choosing his own path and sticking to it thru hell or high water.
from everything wintersbane can see, it's a standard border interview. he's conducted many and more of these himself pre and during his brief leadership stints; and would she have brought up concerns of his presence here, he'd have been quick to soothe it as best as a salve as his words alone could ever be. he wants a place to settle, a place to defend — if necessary — but more than that, he wants what life has denied him time and again: a chance at a family. no more being the coveted secret in the thick of night never to be seen by those borne of his seed. he did not want to be the father that met his children, like
@Quellcrist, out of nothing more than sheer and rare coincidence.
he needs something to devote himself to.
perhaps, he realizes, he always has. that had been the allure of andraste after all; a goddess that he could whisper sweet prayers to.
in this, wintersbane is wholly his father's son.
i'm a master warrior,
the tundrian begins.
i can and will defend the borders from unwanted visitors and trespassers. i can hunt,
evidenced by the fact that he is hearty and healthy despite his lone wolf status.
and i'm good with children. i can help teach and pupsit. i'm a father, though my daughter is an adult grown.
he quickly quiets the pangs of nostalgia as he realizes that this coming winter he might very well have grandchildren.
short post before work~
out of the things that wintersbane has offered skillwise, it is the ‘pupsitting’ one that appears to have grabbed the leader’s attention; or so he makes this assumption based upon the fact that it’s what she capitalizes upon. wintersbane considers the question, for it is a weighty one. there are many things to consider …factors that he cannot possibly know the result of until things are more concrete. but aspiration?
yes,
wintersbane responds.
if it’s applicable,
but those months would soon be upon these wilds and he understands well enough that it’s a privilege that needs to be earned and not a right that is given.
if i can earn that privilege.
while it was true that living beside the ocean wasn’t exactly the thing he aspired to — for he could not stand the grit of sand — he figures it’s not as if he has anything to lose. he’s tried everywhere else, pretty much and as lost everything those times. perhaps living near the ocean is where the key to his happiness lay buried. i’ve lived in forests, tundras, mountains and vales, but i’ve never lived beside the ocean.
there was a first time for everything, as the saying went.
he falls into step a pace or two beside her, deferring to her leadership and knowledge of the lands. the movement of their silent audience of one fleeing briefly captures his attention but is not destined to keep it for it rests back upon erzulie.
yes,
hale tundrian agrees at erzulie’s mention that it would be new for him. raptly, the nomad heeds her words, particularly the mentioning of her wife and that said wife was to be given the same courtesy afforded to her ( erzulie ). becalmed by her accent, the golden woman easily charms the stalwart tundrian; bearer of tragedy written upon his flesh in each scar —
from wedmarks to scarred throatflesh.
he sees no reason to draw into question this method; striking him as a bit strange aside. i don’t think so.