Blackfeather Woods each night reunites me with the feral tenderness of my own evil

it is a struggle for wintersbane to choose what to focus on. his pale and scarred pack-mate? or the ghosts and deities that call the woods home? the delta's no in state of mind to multi-task. it's one or the other and considering he has this belief that the favor of the gods is more important to him than a pack-mate's acceptance — he'd never been religious but he's seen and experienced too much to be a nay-sayer these days. and, in part, this desire likely stems from both his want to be integrated into the culture in full and might also be an attempt to impress the dark priestess. mostly, it was extremely hard to say something doesn't exist when he can see it right in front of his nose — shroom high be damned.

the stranger's footsteps break are heard by the tundrian in the haze and he swings his head towards the pale male as he gobbles up what's left from wintersbane's mushroom stash. "hei! odota." he calls out, pressing off the tree in an effort to stop him. it's too late — wintersbane's body feels heavy and his movements are sluggish. he's in no physical state to stop anyone but he still tries. just as he tries to communicate in tundrian as if he's speaking common. all he knows is he's speaking words and the other male isn't listening and it's becoming rapidly frusterating.

"älä syö sitä." but it's by and far too late. still, the disclaimer's out there. the delta huffs and his weight becomes too much to bear and he lowers himself into a sphinx-like position, attention going back to the ghosts and gods with an annoyed noise and a roll of his eyes. you'll regret it, wintersbane thinks smugly not realizing that his companion might not mind it as wintersbane does. the tundrian minds it a lot and knows that he won't be touching those mushrooms again. his senses are dulled and his focus is out of whack and he almost prefers that the deities of the woods stay invisible to him.