Great Bear Wilderness pale touch

The cut of a figure broke through the fog up ahead some time after, poised and paused. Dirge mirrored them; he could never be too sure what he would encounter in the world, though the wariness was not as prevalent in his features. Moonspear had not had the best of luck when it came to outsiders as of late, and even being here brought its own set of variables to the table.

He studied the figure for a length, as though from there he could ascertain intent or injury both. Even as perceptive as he was as a hunter, there was naught to tell, and his feet drew him a bit closer. His nose worked the air—it was damp, crisp even, and he could tell that they were alone. If others existed and this was some merry band that roved about, they were downwind of him and lost to the fog.

So it was confidence that he wore, his tail flagging gently as his steps halted once more.

“If this fog were any thicker, I may have had a mind to mistake you for something else,” he quipped.