Winter was a harsh mistress. She gripped the land in a frigid hand, dealing damage to all that she touched. No one was safe in the brutal environment that she created. In her heart, a pale ghost sauntered carefully across a vast expanse of white. His breath heaved from his inky lips like steam from a train. Mismatched eyes darted across the landscape, picking at the stray pieces that stood out against the bleak setting. He carried the stench of war on his pelt. He carried the blood of the Cairn in his body, and though he did not look much like his father's son, he was more like Skellige than any of the wolves of the Warsaw islands. Smokestep had returned to reclaim the home his father had built.

Keeping a steady pace, the pale brute soon found his nares flaring at the scent of another. Peering with wild eyes, it was not long before he spotted the one thing that did not quite seem to fit into the scene of stark white. A lone figure moved in their own path. Their pitch coat stood out well enough. Kingfisher watched with a careless expression. His brows were furrowed tightly on his head and he drew a salmon colored tongue along his leathery lips. This one looked as though they were struggling, so perhaps they would be easy to persuade.

The pirate began to work his way toward the stranger, though he managed to keep enough distance that the other should not have noticed him unless he intended to look for pursuers. With a lean swagger, the young Cairn watched and waited to see what this brute had in store for him.

Suddenly, the figure ahead seemed to falter in his steps. Kingfisher paused, his eyes latched to the dark stranger with interest. The other wolf seemed to grow upset at his misstep, snarling in reaction to having hooked his paw against the root. At this, the ghostly figure smirked – his dark lip curling into a half smile on his face. Then, all at once, the dark wolf seemed to notice that he had a tail other than the tassel attached to his rear. Smokestep hunkered himself down and squinted his eyes intently as the strange wolf peered through the trees in search of whoever was following him. Fate could only conceal the pale pirate for a few moments longer, he knew this much.

With lengthy limbs, the Cairn child began to drift forward. His mismatched eyes held the dark figure in their grasp. As he passed between the gnarled trunks of the trees, he cared less and less about being seen. Already, he could see the bristling fur and the sharp glint in the golden eyes of the dark wolf. For a moment, he found familiarity in those embers. Quick to shake it away, Smokestep sauntered forward to close the gap between them.

The specter moved like a vision of a madman. His lengthy strides allowed him to break away at the distance that had spread between them. Inky leather lips had parted to reveal yellowed canines and plumes of breath that drifted over his head. The sable-colored stranger seemed as though they wished to be a roadblock in the way of an immovable force. The ghost welcomed the challenge of this fiery and sickly-looking boy. The defensive position that he took was intelligent. This wolf was not accustomed to battle beneath the depths. His figure was smaller, but his knowledge of the land might have lent him the upper hand.

Smokestep rushed forward in a last-minute sprint and extended his neck in an attempt at a playful nip on the other male's flank. His efforts would be to teasingly jostle the lad before darting past him in a spray of snow and deep-throat chuckles.

The teasing nip met just a hair of flesh before Smokestep pulled away and darted through the snow, kicking it up behind him. As the seafarer craned his neck to check what he had left behind, he saw the dark boy sitting in the snow with his ears tossed wayward and a menacing scowl set to his youthful features. It seemed as though the salty boy was not fond of games. It was a shame that he was faced with the trickster's delighted grin. His salmon tongue hung from the left of his mouth as he breathed plumes into the air.

Deciding that he was not finished, Kingfisher lowered his skull and began back at a slow cantering step. “C'mon now, lad. You're a sour puss, aren't ye?” he jeered with another laugh. His brows furrowed over his eyes and his lip peeled over yellowed teeth as the long-legged ghost snorted.