Nova Peak he wears the night

it is wylla that greets him upon sagtannet’s new borders; sunflowered gaze aloof and tail high, snapping a demand for an explanation. the insinuation — perhaps imagined by wintersbane himself — that he, once her equal, the mastermind behind sagtannet’s whole existence, would abandon his own pack was insulting. wintersbane swallows it like the bitter pill it is; understanding stills all of the impulses and indignation that plagued his youth. it quells the fire that once would’ve burned his tongue if not spat into the air to curl like dragon’s breath.

i was the unlucky bastard that came across a bear when i was scouting upon the coast, it felt like ancient history as he speaks it; a tale whose page was yellowed and frayed with age. she attacked and trapped between the cliffs and her claws and teeth — certain death, she rushed me and i slipped. it had not been heroic. his survival was nothing but stupid, stupid luck.

he’d almost met death at the ferocious whims of the ursine, almost broke his body on the jagged cliffside as he plunged, almost been impaled by the pointed rocks that protruded from the seabed like the teeth of a seething leviathan. he almost drown as saltwater filled his nostrils and mouth; stinging.

he almost —

but he didn’t.

i woke up somewhere north of the wilds. i was injured and too weak to try to come back so i stayed with the nomads that nursed me back to health and when i was well enough stayed a bit longer in an effort to repay their generosity.

what wylla chose to make of it, what she chose to think of him was up to her; and wintersbane is left to wonder in the silence that follows if he has lost sagtannet too. if that is the case, he thinks to himself, let it be a quick stab. he was no longer in the business of suffering …or so he tells himself, anyway.