Blackfeather Woods Sinking your nails in my heart

with the only verbal warning wintersbane felt inclined to give already having been given, the dark brother approaches with slow and purposeful steps, like a hunter stalking it's prey. at this point, as the lone male retreats with one of blackfeather's border decorations. wintersbane's seen a lot of strange things but willing to fight over a rotting corpse? it's desperate. it's also stupid, in the tundrian's opinion, if only because the rotting corpse was stolen right off of their borders. the curl of the loner's tail ignites something feral and ugly within the dark brother's chest and his glacial eyes glint as ruthlessly as the ice their color was siphoned from as a low snarl tears its way from betwixt his lips.

and then wintersbane's tactics switch. the male has dragged the corpse away from the borders and the tundrian is — despite the posturing of the loner's body — placated; for the moment. it's not like he's about to go to war over a rotting corpse. he'll make another corpse and place it in the stolen one's stead. maybe, wintersbane considers, there is potential to be found here. he has many roles as snitch and recruiting is one of them. his position requires him to be social and thus a low, raspy chuckle rumbles up from somewhere deep in his broad chest next.

if you are hungry muukalainen, the tundrian rolls off his tongue as naturally as a breath; it is not the language of the gods but to him it is holy. we have food. fresh and relatively fresh kill that will sit much better than a rotting corpse. if an offer sounds too good to be true, it usually is. an unspoken catch lingers just behind his words. you look strong and capable; perhaps i could interest you in joining us. perhaps he'd use the rotting corpse as leverage. take from us and repent with servitude or blood.