Meadowlark Prairie my face turned pale as deadly pale

the prairie, once a colorful cornucopia of flowers and birds grows bleak as the months of the frost draw ever nearer. the chill creeps through the air like greedy fingers. the tundrian can feel it in the weight of his blue-black and silvered coat as the fur grows thicker and coarser in preparation. his mother's homeland was cold and he was a beast built for talvi. it does not take his glacial gaze long to seek out the listener: she is easy to spot upon the rise where she stands stalwart, illuminated in the bask of dawn light as if she were god touched. perhaps, he thinks, she is. the deities of the dark woods seem to favor her. he'd seen it first hand at the altar. wintersbane feels a warmth of admiration for the dark priestess. as he draws nearer, though, he tucks thoughts of admiration away as his focus shifts to the purpose. a small herd of elk can be seen nearby, the click of their joints as they lazily graze, unsuspecting. the tundrian feels no need to speak as he looks from astara, more gaunt than she should be ( he is hopeful that with time to recover physical and psychologically the shadow stalker will be back on her feet once more ), to relmyna then where it lingers briefly, waiting as she waits for the others. there is a trill of excitement that slithers down his spine. how they hunted today and if they were successful would set a good example of how they work together as a singular unit. information that would be a useful tool for the tactician in him.