Phantom Hollow Bridges burn, and so do I

Falling beneath the rule of another had not been on the northman’s agenda and yet when Potema had implored he could not refuse. They might be something of strangers but she was the mother of his child ( one of them anyway ) and he is lured by the enigma that she presents to him though he knows better. The last time had not turned out at all how it had been meant to go; but he’d tried and he failed and he lived and he learned. He stretches his legs outside of the dark forest for the day, wondering if he would ever again pursue his ranger specialty as he’d once desired to. He was free to now: without the chains of obligation binding him as the chains bind Fenrir; yet not as free as he’d like. He lives once more under rules, subjugating himself beneath a Dark Master and the Listener, herself. The latter he does not mind all that terribly: Potema is the High Priestess and even in Atli’s culture they are revered near as much as the Gods themselves. He doesn’t think he will pursue it with any level of seriousness. He has his mind set on tactician and perhaps switching guardian to warrior.

He pauses as he comes across a scent trail: still fresh and thick therefore meaning she had passed through perhaps minutes before him. Black, leathery nostrils flare as he drinks it in deep, almost not recognizing it without being laced with the scent of sweet mother’s milk and Neverwinter Forest. He knows he should not pursue her: he should not follow the short trail to where she is but he does and finds himself perplexed by the lack of pack and more to the point the lack of Arrille’s scent upon her coat. “Ondine.” He speaks her name coolly, demanding her attention. “Where is my son?” He may be partially blind: she is a writhing, abstract form of smoke that flickers stronger and fainter as heartbeats pass, never solidifying — it takes a moment to force himself to look using his good eye instead.