Ravensblood Forest all gods who receive homage are cruel

wintersbane hears softened footfalls nearby and though his pace does not quicken nor slow, his ears cup forth and swivel to pinpoint the location as they slow. the weight of eyes bearing into him sends a shiver down his spine and his hackles bristle at his nape on instinct. no one reveals themselves even as his steps knowingly slow and then draw to a cease all together. he draws in the scents of the forest around him, sorting and compartmentalizing through the sharp scent of pine, the sickly sweet smell of the sap and beyond that the through-traffic these woods sees. some scent trails are older than others.

one is stronger than the others and it lingers nearby. glacial eyes rove the shadows until they land and focus upon the woman. cloaked mostly in shadows with a coat that is ( from what he can see ) primarily dark itself it is her white face and bizarre facial markings that draw and hold his curious and keen eye. do you always make it a habit to watch strangers? he tactlessly inquires.