Dragoncrest Cliffs they say war is hell

an ache, deep-set and throbbing, nestles along the back of her skull. the once-warlord rolls her shoulders in attempt to dislodge it, and yet can only derive a moment of relief before it takes hold once more. the distant boom of wave against unyielding rock is in tandem with the throbbing pain, and yet she is drawn toward the sound. there is attractiveness in these rough-hewn places at the edge of the world she may travel, and those that frequent them. 

it is when the woodland she travels grows thin that she happens upon the tundrian. slowing, she offers a low call, gaze turned on him, appraising, waiting to see how her presence might be received. solitude had made such meetings more prevalent than she'd like, and yet she'd found they might, rarely, be useful.