Honeyed Pasture dread it, run from it.

aside from the typical amount of attention wintersbane is wont to offer a stranger in a neutral territory, he makes the mistake of disregarding the other's general presence. because this is neutral territory, because he doesn't make the initial chuff of greeting, letting it up to the pale stranger to decide whether to approach and hold conversation or to keep on going past. his head rises one final time from the water, salmon pink tongue drawling across his jowls again to collect the loose droplets of water as his glacial gaze follows the swift approach of the scarred, pale man. the tundrian's chin lifts, something telling him that the swift approach isn't normal. it's not as if they're long lost pals, neither does the stranger's approach make him feel like this meeting's about to be real amiable. there was no chuff prior to it. wintersbane's body posture becomes cautious but he does not move from the stream. there a problem? the tundrian demands, though the muscles beneath his blue-black pelage tense in time with the bristle of hackles.