Dragoncrest Cliffs they say war is hell

what the merihirviö searches for continuously eludes him. he chases it like as if he were a stormchaser chasing a storm, feeling the electricity against his tongue, the heavy humidity in the air only for it to vanish like smoke when he draws just close enough to sink teeth to it. it should not surprise him. the man that sired him was ...little more than a figment of imagination to him: a legend; upon the lips of many but unseen and unknown by ikutur. he supposes his departure and absence from ikutur's life before he even drew first breaths of the damp putrid earth of the birthing den was inevitable. in all her stoicness, his mother was quick to admit she hadn't really known him. the one they called wintersbane.

this place he hails from, though, is real.

perhaps there was disappointing truth yet to be learned.

the low call draws ikutur's tempest blue-grey gaze from the beguiling shadows of the nearing woodlands to the young woman draped in a cloak of charcoal, ash and umber. she is tall and powerful, physically, this much he can tell even from the distance that exists between them. though his initial regard of her is blasé, his interest is irrefutably piqued.

yes? the sway of his tail coupling with the shift of his head inquires for him, inviting her to speak or come nearer — whichever she prefers.