Ravensblood Forest paint hell red

The woman turned to him with a sharp expression and a pale gaze that latched to his features. He did not miss the way that she roamed his frame with a wandering eye, holding for a moment on the standard Cairn-markings that adorned his ribs. How his father had cherished those markings so, but the titan had known it to be merely a fluke of his luck. Even Rannveig had sported a pair of pale coloration that stood in contrast to his slate coat. Skellige had always been a proud fool, though; it only made sense that he would treasure the marking that so closely resembled his own. In many ways, Ford was displeased with it... and by that same token, he too found pride in his familial trademark. What a backwards world they had been birthed into.

Curious, was the comment that fell from her lips. This did not stir him, and his expression did not shift from the calculated stare that it had worn for most of its existence. He had been called far worse things than a mere curiosity.

“I am searching for a bastard who has harmed one of my own,” the warhound returned to her with a firm nod of his peculiar skull. A slight curling of his lip revealed the dagger-like tip of his canine before he housed it once more. “A hound colored orange and white – short furred. Have you seen anyone of the sort?” His mismatched gaze bore into the other wolf without having addressed her comment on their similarities. To Ford, there were none who resembled the Cairn wolves. She may have shared the hood of white, but she knew nothing of their brood.