Meadowlark Prairie Codex

the stranger explains that he ambushed it and all he'd seen was it's dark rear end. it wasn't particularly funny but there's a soft snicker that is brief lived as it escapes the tundrian. as for the likeness, though wintersbane couldn't possibly know what he'd do if he hunted something with the same pelage coloration and patterns of his own he assumes he would go about his business unperturbed and eat it anyway. food is food. maybe. wintersbane offers offhandedly with a loft shrug of his shoulders. they exchange a few more quips and then another tribute is offered in a soft voice that piques the tundrian's curiosity; he preens beneath these offerings. is this what it feels like to be a god? the tundrian cannot help but wonder; to be offered things so freely in exchange for favor. it's a dangerous and powerful feeling and he swears he hears a low, delighted laugh at his contemplations: the tone of a siren's call that could split the earth in two with it's fury if caught in a bad mood.

mephala.

most days the night mother is silent and the dread father has yet to speak to him in a tongue he understands; but this does not mean that wintersbane does not constantly feel sithis' presence. he feels them both.

before wintersbane can inquire as to what else can be offered as tribute the sound of approaching footfalls draws his attention and he tucks the offer away for another time. he is not important enough for his opinion to mean anything ...but for the time being the man before them doesn't know that; and wintersbane is a vain beast to his very core. relmyna appears and wintersbane studies her, noticing her thinning appearance. it sparks a painful worry in his chest that gnaws like a demon threatening to split it's way through his chest but he does not capitalize upon it. not here. not now.

listener, wintersbane breathes her name in greeting with unbridled reverence. thinning and tired or not, the dark priestess is still beautiful and powerful and wintersbane is still inevitably drawn to her like a helpless moth to flame.

his attention divides then, lingering a bit longer than it should have upon relmyna before it shifts back to the male, whom is offering him a roguish grin before teasing an older topic of their conversation. the twitch of wintersbane's lips is sardonic and wicked all at one. as i said before, the tundrian draws in a deep breath. if you were, my teeth would be at your throat. there'd have been no conversation. wintersbane does not hide behind false bravado. he would kill to protect those which have become precious to him in these woods. and it was true that last time they spoke of this, wintersbane hadn't been so direct but it'd been implied all the same.

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