Stavanger Bay and the rich golden hum

it is here, for better or worse, that wintersbane decides he will make his home. he bears down upon the indirect line that separates the beach of stavanger bay from the sentinels and begins to mark his claim. urinating, rubbing his body against the trees, and scratching at the earth with paw-pads and claws. distinct. unyielding; blurring right into the very cusp of the sentinels. it would be their hunting grounds, for he doubts the ashforest of the bay will attract many herding animals.

it’s an arduous and slow task; stretching from early morn into the yawning afternoon, when the sun beats down at it’s highest point upon his back. it is then that he takes a break, pacing away from the borders where he left off to a nearby stream where he laps at the cool, fresh water unable to ignore the roiling hunger in his belly now that his mind is, for the moment, distracted from task.

be it twist of fate, the lapse of time drew him from his charge — away from the haunting of his past and responsibility that loomed the young healer to be more ghost than man. yet now he felt a pit growing in his stomach; wide, empty, threatening. it was strange; to go from walking on clouds, to the sinking and ever suffocating loneliness.
mayhaps that was what lured him back here, in these wilds that he never found purpose within; they blossomed with life (and death), gave the optimistic a chance for new. alamar was no fool, but he dreamt sometimes. his dainty gait carried him with ease, tiptoeing through the thick of the bay with his eyes on the ground, attempting to scavenge what was left of herbs before winter settled in.
his shoulders hiked, however, with his stance freezing once he caught whiff of territorial scent. he swore they weren’t here before, when he’d been milling about his own business. now they were, and a quiet shit was hissed under his breath, muffled by what scraps he managed to find and the flow of the nearby stream. his large ears airplaned, someone was drinking — that much he could pick up, and he slunk lower, attempting to be hidden but likely standing out with his lack of cover.

interested in ironclan btw

yay!! i added alamar to the pledged list <3

in ironclan’s current state, attempting to define what was trespassing and what was not was …not easy. fresh borders were being lain but without the might of a pack behind it seems silly to be a boar about it. with majority of the borders still yet to be mapped out and marked, interlopers were going to happen. as this wasn’t his first rodeo with attempting to form a pack, wintersbane is well aware of what to expect during the process and while he couldn’t account for everything he had a fairly good idea of how he was going to handle these incidents.

shit

he might’ve not even heard the interloper if not for the hiss of the word. head lifts from the rippling water’s edge; polar gaze surveying the thick cluster of ashtrees closest. a shadow — of what he thinks is such — slinking in the tangling limbs. wintersbane takes a few steps in that direction, posture tense but not hostile.

i know you’re there. ominous perhaps ( but not threatening ), but ‘hello’ seemed a bit too casual for the circumstances.

the doctor a fool to think he could slip under the radar, when he himself made noise under his breath — no matter how muffled it might’ve been, ears are sharp, especially when on the look out for others. the coywolf could only think of his options; to flee, to sus the other out, or to bear the brunt of whatever possible punishment this frost giant thinks is suitable for the crime.
alamar relinquishes the hold upon his cache, allowing the plant-life to fall to dainty paws with a sigh. he decides to play it casual; no threat to this man’s throne. he emerges from his shadow, his posture loose and submissive yet not kneeling before the king-to-be.
here i am, he replies after a beat of hesitation. one large ear swerved towards the blue-black soldier, and the other pointed back.

the other shows themselves at wintersbane's cryptic words; hanging in salt tanged air betwixt them. the dispel of various flora catch sharp polar gaze; a flicker betwixt ground and the stranger's face; studying.

you a medic? wintersbane asks after a stretch of prolonging silence. a diversion from what could've been said or asked in it's stead. a ploy to give wintersbane time to decide how he wishes to approach this. give chase? offer to escort while they gathered their herbs and medicines? though his choices were ultimately limited to extreme and fairly generous ( at least he thinks so ), wintersbane does not wish to make them hastily.

for now, interlopers were safe from the flash of his teeth. a mercy granted only until more of a foundation is lain and ironclan's numbers begin to grow.

idle conversation continues and when the interest notably appears to wane, wintersbane draws it to a close, choosing not to make opportunity where he assumes there isn't one to be had.