Ouroboros Spine six of cups

He remained alone for what seemed the longest of times, reaching the bottom of the basin—or what could be considered the bottom—in his thoughts. By then he had turned away from the monolithic structures in the south, his golden gaze cast out over the broad lake that had yet to freeze. If not for the sway of wind and pelting of snow, Dirge pondered if it would have been still. Much of this place seemed still; with the winter, perhaps it was frozen in time.

A distant voice rang out to him then, rooting him firm in the moment as he turned to locate its source. The she-wolf was like him, hard to miss while draped in earthy colors head to toe. Not even the smattering of toussled snow on their coats would hide them here, out away from the sparse and twisted trees. He regarded her as he had all others: intrigued but with reservation, ever curious what it was that drew them altogether. He doubted the locale belonged to anyone in particular, new or old; he had been somewhat near to those places, innately aware of what could become of wayward and unwanted souls.

It was no matter—she was drawing close now.

His tail swung behind him, greeting enough for when he had nothing to comment on. Company would have been nice on a tranquil day, even if the wind had a bite to it. At least here, he hadn't needed to suss out such things.