Neverwinter Forest and his throat burns from the screaming

from ocean breath's plateau the tundrian moves east, careful to stay north of moonspear. he isn't sure if they will bother hunting him down — he doubts he's worth the effort or the manpower ( or, rather, he hopes ). he wasn't family so he generally assumes that charon couldn't be bothered to care. it doesn't slide past his notice that he's picked up a habit. a habit of abandoning packs. teaghlaigh ( however accidental that one'd been ), blackfeather woods, the forming ravensblood forest, the hopeful pack adeline had been attempting to make ( though it's ultimate failure to form might've been his fault, too ), moonspear. for the moment, wintersbane stays clear of adhering himself to the laws and leadership of another pack. thus far in his life it's proven to be ...messy. and he comes off as nothing short of disobedient. he's not the sort to follow the leader and when he did he hated the stagnant and complacent thing he'd became. no pack was going to willing put up with his antics and he doesn't exactly blame them for it. would he, if the tables were turned? hell no. he was as hard-nosed for laws as he was rebellious against all but his own. which was largely contradictory and complex.

he lets out a small, inaudible snort as he shrugs beneath a massive evergreen pine. it's needles brush against his fur causing the skin to crawl along his spine and his ears to slick back and pin against his skull. the floor was shadowed and there was not much light except for the few stubborn rays of sunlight that managed to break through the canopy above. the forest offers a cool place to reside, for the time being, and the tundrian was grateful for it, clinging to the northern reaches of the territory's natural borders.