Wapun Meadow cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

It is always when he sets out of Easthollow’s territory to track a herd or to hunt when he comes across them: the lone, the captivating. It’s never his intention — this particularly cold and bleak day he seeks the pronghorns that he knows haunt the territory, itching to slip out of Easthollow’s suddenly too watchful eye. He has no doubt that Mur had spoken to Valette — a suspicion born merely because he strikes Wardruna as the type. The type to stick his nose in the face of a king cobra because he thinks it’s his business to meddle. This king cobra would have no qualms about striking him if he got too close. Noma’s strength is returning and slowly Wardruna’s hunting abilities are improving. He will never been one hundred percent but he strives to be as close as he can: to put his faith in the gods that though his world has cast him out as an exile, as a disgrace to their culture that they still had faith in him as he did them. Perhaps he would take his woman ( women? ) and depart Easthollow soon. He’s not sure if @Noma has joined him or not — he gives her the choice with no obligation either way before he sets out.

His hunt for the pronghorn he’d been following is momentarily abandoned, as his right eye takes in the female’s form. She is dark brown with light brown markings and eyes that appear to be red to him. Not red like the blood that pools in his left iris from his permanent hyphema but of a similar color. The snow does little to mask his approach: he cannot help the soft crunch of it under his paws and as to not startle her off — because truly that would be a shame — Wardruna lets out a low, soft chuff to announce his presence to her.

321 words