Blackfeather Woods we are animal hungry down to our delicate bones

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it takes wintersbane a while to realize he's being stalked as he progresses through redgrove. even as he hears the lapse in other wise silent tread he does not turn 'round, does not draw on any indication that he is now aware that he has a shadow, except for a minute flicker of an ear which he tries to disguise as an errant twitch even as a smirk begins to tug at the corners of his lips. he suspects he knows who his shadow is — though he does not know with absolute certainty. the tread is far too light for a full grown adult and though he knows astara has a sister wintersbane has yet to meet the shadow's other half. he's seen her only in passing, in small glimpses here and there.

regardless, he encourages the game by continuing to go about his business, playing oblivious. one day, this game will become a deadly albeit useful skill. wintersbane always had more of a direct approach. he was like an on-coming storm. he did not hide in shadows with softened, whispering footsteps. he'd always liked the idea of his enemies knowing that he was hunting them. that death was on it's way.

the war-cry came from the bloodied bushes and wintersbane's head snapped to the side. he attempts to dodge her but he forgets that she is swift and that his big frame makes him good for taking and dealing heavy blows but slows him down. a sharp hiss draws from betwixt the tundrian's lips as she attacks his left, hind leg. his ears slick back against his skull and a playful growl tears rumbles in his chest, his lips quivering back into a silent snarl. though he suspects that not a whole lot would scare astara he is careful not to discourage her play. he welcomes it. wintersbane is built for war and can handle being her practice dummy opponent. "good varjostaja." he rumbles in praise, the tundrian rolling off his tongue without his notice.