Moonspear hello from the otherside

Focusing on nothing but the pull and receed of the strong muscles beneath his coat of platinum silver, on his steady breaths, on the little icy pings of the cold dusk air as he inhaled and the warm kiss of his warm breath across his nose and muzzle when he exhaled, it was easy to forget. For the moment that was what he yearned for the most. Absence of thought, nothing but the driving instinct. It was a reprieve from the civil war waging within him and the heavy burden of knowing how he could fix everything (complacency, complete altering of his personality, etc) and yet knowing that those things would be near impossible for him. Temporarily free from the weight his troubled thoughts left upon his shoulders he wished to linger in the simplicity of it. 

Yet this purgatory was not to last for the scent of another soon wafted from behind him and the Loðbrok's steps ceased, hackles bristling along his spine as he was jarred from the numbness he'd embraced. His head whipped shortly followed by his body as he turned to face her, though for the second he had to squint to discern her monotone outline against the rise of snow, blending in too well for the color blind berserker to make her out at first. With her outline in his view he relaxed some, but not much. “Are you following me?” He asked her, not knowing who she was. She smelled of Moonspear, albeit the last traces of her lone scent lingered a little. In all fairness, he would have asked the same even if she would have been a familiar face.