Blackfeather Woods but there's chaos brewing underneath my skin

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the tundrian focuses on his patrol, shuffling thoughts into some repressed corner of his mind. there doesn't need to be thoughts and when he's focusing on them his attention is drifting from the task at hand: marking and watching for loiterers. he doesn't expect to find a loiterer, admittedly, and yet the series of small chuffs drift his way he stops. her scent wafts towards him: the scent that the wolfdog, elixir had carried upon her pelt. though his muscles pull taunt beneath his blue-black pelage, thick and coarse to weather the winter months wintersbane is drawn by curiosity more than he is hostility. thus far, anyway.

she remains far enough away from their borders that he does not feel the need to be overbearingly territorial. she is a long way from home, he thinks, and wonders what draws her here. loiterers were far and few in-between, for the most part. the grim scene of their borders: rotting corpses, skeletal remains and blood was enough to cause the most hardened to rethink lingering. glacial gaze studies her in the distance that hangs between them. what brings you here, tuntematon? he demands of her in a quiet rumble, like a thunderstorm upon the horizon, the tundrian word slipping from his tongue with ease. he does not use it as much as he wishes he would. it is a language he knows in his bones; it feels like home and connects him to his ancestors of the icy fjords in enok.

glacial gaze is expectant as it lingers upon her.

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