Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

hmm, wintersbane rumbles in quiet contemplation as she tosses adjectives at him that she sees when she looks at him. wrath. ruin. risk. peril. he considers it, perhaps more seriously than he should but ultimately comes to the conclusion that there is nothing that she has spoken that is untrue. i don't disagree with that, wintersbane speaks beyond his boorish grunt; cannot even be mad at her for it. he has never fancied himself the heroic type, after all. i've never been the silver knight meant to sweep damsels in distress off their feet.

for a second he peers down at his shoulder where all remnants of the dyed red paw print had once stood out like blood upon the bluish black of his fur. now, with no need to refresh it, it is left unmade. like, perhaps, the part of him that had been in blackfeather woods. the part of him that had loved it's pale priestess, relmyna. that wintersbane had died with his lover. who risen in his wake ...well, that was still a path of discovery. but what is life without risk? you took a risk to form courtfall, didn't you? was it worth it? sometimes, it's worth the leap of faith.