Otter Creek a burning coal touching the prophet's lips

a sage nod is given to ganondorf's words. several lifetimes ago. wintersbane murmurs. feeling like he is centuries old, as old as the sun itself has taken root in wintersbane a lot lately. he feels ancient as opposed to being in the prime of his life; a feeling made unintentionally more pronounced by mahler's affirmation that he's seen much history. too much, perhaps. he is there, always, in the thick of it. like his is drawn to those historical moments; called to arms. but how much history could he witness before he was called to the end?

i've came and i've went. he answers noncommittally at first and then offers, without prompt, i've stayed around the wilds for the most part. his time spent out of them has always, always been brief. a month or two at most. try as hard as i may i can never seem to sever this place from myself. 'this place' meaning the wilds at large. a soft snort is given. how about you? the soturi inquires, curious to hear of the other man's travels or lack thereof.