Honeyed Pasture dread it, run from it.

the pastures are quiet — a good place to think though rumination keeps leading wintersbane in circle after circle. he's not likely to understand the thought that led him to the decision, and assures himself that he doesn't have to stay if things don't work out. he didn't stay any of the previous times when he realized he was caught in a riptide and was just spending energy uselessly to stay afloat when he knew that he was just going to drown.

with his thirst mostly stated, the tundrian looks up and draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls to collect the loose droplets of water that cling to the hairs of his chin. it is then that his glacial gaze catches the movement of the pale beast in the distance; stark in contrast to the greens and browns of the patches of tall grass that sway in the gentle breeze. for now, wintersbane does nothing. does not chuff to garner attention, does not move other than to bow his head and take another, small drink, ears cupped forth, alert, atop his skull.