Neverwinter Forest carry me down the mountain, water,

Another day of patrolling the borders stretched on ahead of him. It was not unpleasant work by any means, but he knew where he would rather be.

It had occurred to him that, if Seastorm smelled like him, then he probably also smelled like Seastorm. Which meant that his scent, noticeable on the borders, might also carry hers. That made moving her deeper into the territory a moot point, but he didn't see how he could change any of this. They'd just have to be vigilant.

Well — he was doing that, now. And he'd spotted something just a little out of the ordinary: two bucks had locked horns, and now they were stuck. Or, rather, one was stuck. The other was dead, neck bent and twisted oddly as its living counterpart tried to get away. Catamaran stood nearby, fascinated by the spectacle of it. Something had already begun to eat the dead deer, but the living one was pristine — and steadily growing weaker.

The pelt was a perfect candidate for the task Callyope had assigned him.

strange scent riding the wind towards him. catamaran, hunting partner, laced with another, a stranger, but still fondly of forneskja. rökkur would carry himself upwind, towards the smell of both his packmate and the smell of buck. a carcass on the winds, though lingering with that of a deer that smelt all-too-alive. a strange combination.

and then blonde hair peeked from behind the pine trees, and the shadow—no, the guardian, the sögumaðr—would let out a low huff; an announcement of his approach. he pulled up beside the man, then, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. oh, he murmured, low and gravelly. shocked. disgusted? that is unfortunate.

he meant to ask of the strange scent upon his pelt, but that could wait, now. how long has he been like this? the lorekeeper asked instead. pity gripped his expression, softening, twisting it. nose wrinkled at the smell of death. an awkward, ugly dance that was slowly draining the life of the living deer. he felt the urge to free it. save it.

and so he looked over at catamaran; another question: should we do something about this? he asked, slow, gentle, nodding towards the bucks. was this an indicator of the others time? did the living buck deserve sacrifice? or was this a call of mercy? he did not yet know. but he did know that he could not continue watching for long.

"For them," Catamaran agreed, his tone even. But there was something in his expression that said that he, too, felt some measure of compassion for the scene. The dead buck's suffering had ended, but the living one was primed to suffer if it could not free itself.

He did not look at Rokkur as the other man arrived, too wrapped up in the National Geographic special playing out before them. With another hunter with him, he could go ahead and do something about it. Likely, the buck was hardly up for a fight by now, but Catamaran hadn't wanted to risk it.

"Probably for some time," he replied, his eyes leaving the locked antlers to scrutinize the state of the half-eaten buck. "Several days." It was a miracle the one was still alive. Whatever had eaten off the dead one had, apparently, not bothered with the living.

He looked back at Rokkur at the last question, a little taken aback. He supposed, though, that the man might not have wanted to interrupt the show, since Catamaran had been so absorbed in it.

"We should put it out of its misery," he agreed, his tail swishing at the thought of another full meal. Seastorm did not prefer large game, but he did. "Unless you want to try untangling them."

It was a jest — but a jest from Catamaran sounded like any other statement that came out of his mouth. He looked to Rokkur again anyway, just to see if he would laugh. But he didn't expect it; others rarely laughed at his jokes.