the caws and cackles of the ravens can be heard overhead and far off in the distance, carrying through the tree's canopy and the blood-red bushes. the trees are thin in this section of the woods, some bowed as if they grew with a mighty force pressing against their trunks. winterbane's blue-black pelage marked by his trademark silvery-blue mane bestows him very little camouflage in redgrove which is easily one of the lighter sub-territories of blackfeather woods. he does not remember this place from his cubhood. obviously, it has always been here ...though it was possible it was one of the places he was warned not to venture. he does not remember; or perhaps more accurately he does not care to. he is a formidable adult now, bear-like and more tundrian than he is coywolf. very, very little of arturo can be found in wintersbane ...except perhaps for scattered nuances of mannerisms and approaches to issues. the tundrian is his mother's son primarily; proudly. in body, in soul ...and one day in legacy.

a black feather floats lazily to the ground as a raven flies overhead, letting out a loud cackle. wintersbane pauses in his steps and watches it's graceful descent to the ground where it lands and tangles in the bloodied leaves and spindly branches of the bush directly in the tundrian's path. he inspects it for a moment. would he have been in the habit of collecting feather he'd have scooped it up for the feather itself is pristine, long and unbroken; but it holds no interest to him and he does not know of anyone who enjoys collecting such things. ultimately, however, wintersbane silently deems it as uninteresting and sidesteps the bush to continue on his way.

wintersbane was not alone as he tread through the forest; a tiny shadow, silent and raptoral, followed him. her steps were laced with care, her movement furtive -- yet it was entirely likely at some point he would catch the lapse of skill in her tread, and detect her.

all the same astara doggedly kept to her game of stalking her guardian, her indigo eyes set firmly on his exposed hocks as he bent down to inspect a feather. she scooched closer to the underbrush and hunkered down as he rose -- and once the tundrian struck off again the nightcub exploded from the briars with a war-cry, executing a terrifying 'drive-by astara' to any limb unfortunate enough to be in her way.

it takes wintersbane a while to realize he's being stalked as he progresses through redgrove. even as he hears the lapse in other wise silent tread he does not turn 'round, does not draw on any indication that he is now aware that he has a shadow, except for a minute flicker of an ear which he tries to disguise as an errant twitch even as a smirk begins to tug at the corners of his lips. he suspects he knows who his shadow is — though he does not know with absolute certainty. the tread is far too light for a full grown adult and though he knows astara has a sister wintersbane has yet to meet the shadow's other half. he's seen her only in passing, in small glimpses here and there.

regardless, he encourages the game by continuing to go about his business, playing oblivious. one day, this game will become a deadly albeit useful skill. wintersbane always had more of a direct approach. he was like an on-coming storm. he did not hide in shadows with softened, whispering footsteps. he'd always liked the idea of his enemies knowing that he was hunting them. that death was on it's way.

the war-cry came from the bloodied bushes and wintersbane's head snapped to the side. he attempts to dodge her but he forgets that she is swift and that his big frame makes him good for taking and dealing heavy blows but slows him down. a sharp hiss draws from betwixt the tundrian's lips as she attacks his left, hind leg. his ears slick back against his skull and a playful growl tears rumbles in his chest, his lips quivering back into a silent snarl. though he suspects that not a whole lot would scare astara he is careful not to discourage her play. he welcomes it. wintersbane is built for war and can handle being her practice dummy opponent. "good varjostaja." he rumbles in praise, the tundrian rolling off his tongue without his notice.

astara had taken pains to be subtle, but given her lack of skill, could be easily detected. she was unaware that wintersbane had been notified to her presence for some time now, and feeling her impish delight uncurtained, had several times refrained from a high-pitched giggle in the shrubs.

until, of course, her assault -- which went far better than the little shadow had planned. as she landed a nip with teeth only partially bared she looked up in time to see that silent snarl -- it was commanding enough to cow any ambitions of a second onslaught, for his teeth were conical and huge in astara's eyes.

she slunk back but not without a fair bit of smug hubris encircling her gaze, accepting the praise with a child's confidence that it was, of course, very well deserved. once she felt a suitable amount of time had passed for wintersbane's accolades she gave a low growl and a shake of her booty towards him to elicit more play.

though wintersbane had not intended for it to, his silent snarl had intimidated her from an additional assault. guilt floods the tundrian immediately as he watches her slink back and his ears slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull, his shoulders dropping and his tail waving once against his hocks in an attempt to communicate to her that he hadn't intended to frighten her. that she was in no danger of being reprimanded nor physically hurt by him.

his praise, while utterly genuine, appeared to additionally work in his favor of assuring her that he was not angry. not too long after his praise had been offered and accepted by the varjostaja, a low growl emits from her followed by a booty wiggle that is meant to entice play. relief floods the tundrian in the wake of the guilt he'd felt previously. the silent snarl was forgiven then. he makes a mental note to be more mindful to curb some of his instinctual reactions around cubs ( the younger ones, at least ). wintersbane bows down in response, large paws patting the earth followed shortly after by a low, deep woof; a clear invitation for her to make the first move.

astara had not meant to instill guilt in her new playmate, yet when she caught the glint of shame in his posture she noted it, mulling it over in a most unwelcome way. perhaps this was why play was nobler than anything in the world -- it taught the young far more than when to flash their teeth and where -- it also taught them when to stow their fangs away, and how to assimilate an enemy without ever touching him.

astara's mind was scheming; perhaps it might be visible to wintersbane the manner in which her mind churned, for a glimmer of dancing light shone distractedly in the corner of her eye. she paused a few times in her dartings, but as wintersbane bowed down again and woofed astara flung herself upon him like a little banshee, springing for his cheek with tiny teeth bared.

wintersbane watches astara for any sign of how and when she might make her move, noting that she is contemplating. heavily, perhaps. or perhaps it is not as heavy as he thinks her thinking may be ...nevertheless there is a distant gleam to her eye. with his invitation open for her to accept or decline as her leisure she lunges at him like a shadow-draped banshee with teeth bared. the shadow girl is swift but wintersbane thinks ( assumes, rather ) he could've moved out of the way in time to avoid her. instead, he feigns a dodge and lets out a small hiss of a pain as her teeth find the flesh of his cheek, sharpened canines splicing the skin to draw a small bit of blood. "good, good." wintersbane encourages and snaps his teeth at her in retaliation for her attack, careful to avoid actually biting her, curious to see what she will do. eventually, her opponents would fight back. she is a ( growing ) child and wintersbane hinders on that edge of trepidation, afraid he might accidentally hurt her. thus, he favors the feigning of attacks and ferocity so that she might get a small taste of what an actual spar might be.

he is toying with her, but astara is unaware of it. wintersbane could simply end this, one sweep of a paw, one puncture of a fang: but he plays his hand well, and astara is never exposed to the tender scheme of his game.

she had nicked him, and tasted blood. some children might have felt guilty. astara only felt righteousness - a crow of victory flung out from her little jaws, and as she lunged for him again he had easily stepped out of range.

growling like a tiny crocodile astara lumbered around and faced him; he had shown he was faster than her, so she would make his legs her new target. holding his icy gaze, astara appeared to be lunging once more for his cheek -- but at the last minute she wrenched her body downward, and aimed a good chomp at any toe she could reach.

her victory screech as she draws blood is as close to words as wintersbane thinks he's ever going to get with astara. she is a young woman of silence, not unlike her mother. he wonders if such ability to listen and wield silence without the need for verbal communication is a gift the family as a whole possesses. regardless there are times that wintersbane is almost envious of astara's ability to do so. his tail lashes against his hocks, ears slicking back against his skull as a low bark that never pushes past his lips rumbles like distant thunder in his chest. she doesn't need the encouragement though, for quick as a cobra's strike she is lunging back at him, her sharp teeth at a toe now. a sharp hiss of pain leaves his lips and he snaps his teeth at her, teeth seeking to glide through tendrils of fur in a feign attack but his goal is to not let his teeth touch her.