Honeyed Pasture dread it, run from it.

@Smokestep & then later ford. ;D || whump phase i

the day is cloudy, but the sun still breaks through the clouds that float across the skyline to obscure it; warmer still than the days had been the past month. spring is upon them, wintersbane has no doubt. he takes time away from blackfeather woods, figuring that no one would particularly miss his absence. the truth was, he wasn't even sure what he was doing back there in the first place. when titmouse had taken him to relmyna's grave for one last goodbye he wasn't going to stay but something told him to anyway, to through his support behind the young pale pair though he is not sure he fully trusts them yet. the circumstances of his ultimate decision are still unknown to him and though wintersbane thought a walk outside of the territory would help to clear his head he's left with as many questions as when he'd begun.

there was nothing particularly special about honeyed pasture; aside from perhaps that the scent of prey was rather plentiful, the tall grasses offered plentiful cover for prey stalking and the few streams offered a refreshing drink. it's such a stream that wintersbane makes a stop at, bowing his head to lap at the cool water.

Clouds stretched overhead, seemingly whisked up by the lightest touch of a breeze, and then sent tumbling across the skies like weightless giants. The ghost had moved away from the sea for a moment and ventured deeper inland than he had the time before. The further that he seemed to stretch from the shore, the more he could feel himself slipping away. It was as though the cold grip of death was upon him, but only when he was not close enough for her to grasp.
 
Turning to glance back over his shoulder, Smokestep shuddered at the thought of the keeper and what she would have done to him for having ventured to that point. As though she understood, Sandpiper appeared at his side and rested her muzzle against his flank. The pallid beast turned his head slowly to look at the decaying figure of his sister. She looked worse and worse with every day.

the pastures are quiet — a good place to think though rumination keeps leading wintersbane in circle after circle. he's not likely to understand the thought that led him to the decision, and assures himself that he doesn't have to stay if things don't work out. he didn't stay any of the previous times when he realized he was caught in a riptide and was just spending energy uselessly to stay afloat when he knew that he was just going to drown.

with his thirst mostly stated, the tundrian looks up and draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls to collect the loose droplets of water that cling to the hairs of his chin. it is then that his glacial gaze catches the movement of the pale beast in the distance; stark in contrast to the greens and browns of the patches of tall grass that sway in the gentle breeze. for now, wintersbane does nothing. does not chuff to garner attention, does not move other than to bow his head and take another, small drink, ears cupped forth, alert, atop his skull.

His surroundings did not matter to him, but once upon a time, they would have. Had it been just as it had when the pallid creature had first entered the wilds, he would have taken a great interest to know just how far away he was from the sea – to know the surrounding lands as though his life depended on this knowledge. Instead, he could feel his distance from her with every step that was taken. It was as though the space that he put between himself and the water was like a knife being wedged between his ribs. He would not have been able to venture much further without faltering.
 
’There’s something watching,’ Sandpiper warned him in a sputtering voice. The pale pirate turned his attention toward her and frowned. Her lifeless sights were pinned on something behind him. Smokestep turned his head around and fixed his gaze on the image of a dark hound with eyes the color of the most pitiless winter. The pirate’s hackles rose and bristled along his backside. He lifted his crown upward and revealed the thick scars that marred the underside of his throat. Then, he approached the stranger on swift and rickety limbs.

aside from the typical amount of attention wintersbane is wont to offer a stranger in a neutral territory, he makes the mistake of disregarding the other's general presence. because this is neutral territory, because he doesn't make the initial chuff of greeting, letting it up to the pale stranger to decide whether to approach and hold conversation or to keep on going past. his head rises one final time from the water, salmon pink tongue drawling across his jowls again to collect the loose droplets of water as his glacial gaze follows the swift approach of the scarred, pale man. the tundrian's chin lifts, something telling him that the swift approach isn't normal. it's not as if they're long lost pals, neither does the stranger's approach make him feel like this meeting's about to be real amiable. there was no chuff prior to it. wintersbane's body posture becomes cautious but he does not move from the stream. there a problem? the tundrian demands, though the muscles beneath his blue-black pelage tense in time with the bristle of hackles.

What Wintersbane did not understand was that there was more than just a problem. To ask such a question would do very little good when faced with the wild-eyed beast that trudged toward him. Smokestep did not halt in his approach and he did not waver, in spite of his thin limbs and gaunt features. There was something careless about him, but not in a way that teased at a lackadaisical nature. No, the pallid creature simply did not seem to hold much concern for his own wellbeing. He was already dead, after all. What was the worst that could happen to him there?
 
“She has requested that I collect you for her,” he answered the stranger in a solemn and raspy tone. Then, Smokestep shrugged his shoulders as though he expected his words to make perfect sense to the tundra wolf. It was only then that the fleeting figure of the ghost slowed his pace, but he had all but closed a vast majority of the distance that had stretched between them only moments before.