Tormented Tarns and he was the man for the job; a one-man bombsquad

the stranger returns the chuff and wintersbane sloshes through the water, resisting the hiss that threatens to pass through clenched teeth as it laps at his ankles. his fur is thick, made for the frigid temperatures of winter but that does not make him immune to chill. winter has yet to hit them in full force, however, and he does not fear losing a toe to hypothermia ( yet ). perhaps, it's the vartija's way of proving his strength to himself. glacial gaze takes in the svelte stranger as he approaches: thin with features that are almost sylph-like. heavily scarred. not quite to the extent of say mou but still. though wintersbane is proud to call himself a warrior he can't help but be insufferably and vainly glad that he bears no scars ...and if he does his thick fur hides them.

you look like you've been through hell, tuntematon, the gamma of the dark woods quips, drawing his physical assessment of the older male to a close with a twist of his lips. the tarnished tarns are far enough away from blackfeather woods that wintersbane doesn't feel the need to be overly prying. what he's doing out in this eldritch territory is his own business.