Kildeer Rest Jagerfly

Evening had fallen in the Teekon wilds. The last remnants of sunlight had spilled over the mountains more than an hour before Jörmungandr had stepped into the field of swaying grass. The wind did little to cool the air, but it stirred to life scents and noises that the dark figure had never known. His eye drifted from the grass plain to the distant mountains and the land that stretched in between.

Slowing, Jörmungandr sniffed at the earth. There were scents that he knew mingled with scents that were foreign. He frowned. The breeze brushed against the hair at his ears, and he shook his head to relieve the feeling of a whispering voice from his head. From the wood at his back cawed a dark-feathered raven. Jörmungandr would take this as a good sign.

The dark wolf pressed on, searching for signs of where the traveling wolves had journeyed.

cyril had only really bothered to inform @Arielle of his intention to roam some. mainly so that he might bring her back any plants she may have wanted. he had ended up distracted as he followed a herd eastward. only to become even more distracted as the land shifted in various ways.

or perhaps it wasn't that he became distracted, maybe it was that he wanted be distracted.

and here was a hulking figure to provide another distraction. a giant mammoth of a man. dark and one-eyed, peppered with scars that told stories cyril didn't care to know. for now he remained a safe distance away, each visible to the other, as he watched the man closely.

Jörmungandr was watched by a wolf cloaked in shadow and draped in faded sun. The Svartravn had only caught a glimpse of the thing, just in the corner of his field of sight. He had turned his head to check his surroundings only that once. The black wolf did what he could to remain on guard. If a pursuit was in the stranger’s plans, Jörmungandr would address him.

Until the watcher opted to reveal himself, Jörmungandr did not have a need to stop and mull. The tracks of the wolves that he followed met a grouping. One of the scents that was recognized was that of the strange little witch wolf – the pale one, marked with a dark nose bridge. Jörmungandr had not liked the seer. He had thought it foolish to allow him in their midst when the Kvitravn clan had proven time and again… pale-furs were not to be trusted.

One last glance over his shoulder found Jörmungandr’s wine gaze resting upon the stranger. This time he held himself, drawing his snout upward in a show of his brute strength. What do you want, dark follower?

strong. powerful. cyril felt, uh, uncomfortable. to put it lightly. and now the man's gaze was heavy upon him with no words to follow. cyril briefly wondered why he had even bothered to come this close. it wasn't too late to leave, was it?

yet he stayed rooted to the spot.

what? he nearly fumbled the simple question on his tongue. intimidated clearly, but stupid enough to stand around still.

What?

The dark wolf did not shift his weight or react to the single word. Jörmungandr did not like to be addressed in such a way. The stranger wolf was riding the line between inconsiderate and foolish. The Svartravn wolf did not understand the reason behind the question, but he did not care to.

You approached me.

The words were said plainly, thick with a Norwegian accent. Jörmungandr blinked his single red eye. The common tongue was not an enjoyable one. He had heard enough men speak it to have become fluent. It did not change his views on the language.

What do you want? Jörmungandr then demanded, rougher than before.