after his talk with moor, of seastorms and the storms that plagued the coast in the late months of summer ( known to him only because of his brief time/reign in rusalka ) that had forced them to relocate further inland sparked inspiration and a need to have a place to safely shelter not too terribly far from their bay in case something similar were to happen. wintersbane does not think it is terribly uncommon on the coast — though he does not truly know in truth. the sea is nigh unpredictable so why wouldn't her storms be?
it drives him a little south-west of the bay — into the bowels of the deepwood weald. the forest is spindly, but the intertwining of the fingerlike limbs way overhead look like they would offer plenty of shelter from the worst of weather. it's dark and likely easy to get lost within the labyrinth of trees and ferns — of olive greens and apple reds — but for shelter, wintersbane thinks it will work well.
so long as no one claimed it in the in-between — of which, he knows, there was never any guarantee. a neutral territory he would have to keep an interested eye upon now and then.
the singing, hard to ignore and even harder to miss as it drifts thru the weald is was captures the tundrian’s attention; despite that the words caught in snippets as he focuses between mapping a simple layout of the weald and the joyful singing, fall upon ears that do not recognize the tongue. the only reason he even recognizes it as a second language is because he, too, speaks an uncommon tongue here. heard only from the lips of his mother and now, his uncle.
the footfalls drawing nearer, however; are harder to ignore and wintersbane pauses his exploration to address the singing man as he appears in the tundrian’s path. a soft chuff of greeting is given; testing to see if the stranger was sociable or not ( though either way, wintersbane would not be offended ).
word count: 136
Nyumba yetu nzuri, hakuna matata. Mahali ya maajabu, hakuna matata. Mahali yenye amani, hakuna matata.
he continued to sing, up until another wolf entered his view. He wasn't all that surprised that his singing attracted attention, just surprised about the attention he had gotten.
He'd never seen a wolf with such a pattern before. There was blue in his gray, with snow dusting his back. He wondered how much of him was fur and how much was his actual form. He stares at the wolf, the moment lasting briefly before he chuffs back. A sheepish smile crossed his face. You heard me singing, eh?
a sweep of polar gaze is given; black leathery nostrils flaring as wintersbane takes a moment to drink in the pack scent that clings heavily to the stranger’s pelage. it nags at him in its familiarity but he cannot place where he’s scented it before; even so, it does not bring with it any sort of name or place.
yeah,
wintersbane drawls, lips quirking into a small smile.
i'm fairly certain the dead heard you singing.
wintersbane teases with an amiable chuckle.
for a moment, he’s reminded of lotte …and by extension his uncle dagfinn who apparently was also a bard.
you a bard?
wintersbane inquires, equating the need to sing ( a need he has never possessed ) to being in a good mood.
word count: 124
He takes a breath, smelling a pack's scent on the blue-toned wolf within the clinging smell of the sea. This was a bit inland for a seawolf, wasn't it? Ah, but there was not limit on where one could go, borders not withstanding. I hope they liked my singing then! But that'd be rude of me to wake them,
he chuckled, glad that their interaction had started off amiable. This wolf would give him a challenge if it came to blows.
Bard?
he echoed, the unfamiliar word feeling strange in his accent. He rolled the r, which the other did not do, but that was more from habit. I do not think so, what is that?