Felltree Marsh Unjaded

A figure had paused ahead; feminine in conformation, but this was about all he could make of the other at his distance. The morning breeze carried her scent with it, brushing against him lightly... hauntingly. From her russet fur drifted the telltale scent of the willows, and almost just as stringent as this was the cologne of Stark. Warbone felt his stomach turn slow, like a spit churning over lit coals, until it almost hurt to continue approaching her. His pace slowed in clear acknowledgement of her appearance there, but she seemed to be waiting for him— and he did not seek to disappoint her.

The pain, like cinders in his throat, he thought originated from a sense of dread, but the closer he came he realized it was a discomfort born entirely of jealousy. The she-wolf of the Keep should be his companion. It should've been his scent clinging to her coat and cloying her from being mistaken as anyone else's. She should be running and hunting with him as her brother and friend, unaware that she shared such typical enjoyments with her actual brother— and the family they had forged and protected of their own volition. It was his dream still, he knew, and it hurt more now to see a product of the greatness risen in his absence, than to arrogantly face the leader of it.

He approached without a hitch in his step, cautious because of the wolf's allegiance, but generally unafraid to meet her. More of the woman came into detail, as the cyclops watched her, and he couldn't help but become more miffed at the fact that she was sternly attractive. He stopped several yards back, and pressed his ears forward with mild interest, wondering if he had been talked about. If he had anything going for him, it at least hadn't looked like she was hunting him on purpose. This seemed to be a chance meeting, if anything. Or perhaps fate, for those who believed in such things.

"Hello," he first offered neutrally.