Dragoncrest Cliffs god is a shapeless hunger

Soon, they're gathered. His eyes and ears flick from wolf to wolf, settling most primarily on a volley between Helix and Thuringwethil as the details come in clearer than ever before--especially punctuated by the purpose here: to send Heda back to Trigeda. This fact, this very notion, sends tension anew into his every fiber. Why now? He's always remained dimly aware of the possibility, though banked on no necessity up until now, when it wasn't.

His mismatched eyes dart to the heda, and he clenches his teeth carefully. Again, why now?

Helix's words hung, though. Warriors if they had them. He was loathe to thin their numbers, and still churning through the possibility of their commander leaving them for some place he really only knew of through the words of others. Knee-jerk reaction did not find him all too pleased. "We have few to spare," he was firm in this; she, and those who had accompanied her, had probably seen it for themselves. While their security here stayed tight, much else would stretch them thin. When a bear they had not killed once before lurked the coastline, and winter loomed on the shortening of the days, the wocha trusted few else in these wilds.