Heron Lake Plateau a treason bestowed to the crowd

Soon, he felt eyes on him.

He could have thought it to be Stjornauti playing a game with him as they often had in times past, where one would stalk the other. But these eyes felt different somehow. Not quite predatory but assertive and curious enough to take him in, and in those long moments where he took his time slaking thirst he could not help but search his surroundings in the best ways he could.

His eyes scanned the surface of the water to peer across the lake, which here it was at its smallest width. He found naught more than brush and a treeline some distance off. His ears swiveled, listening, but he did not hear the breath of another predator lying in wait. It was his nose that picked up the trailing scent where the wind shifted, and he concluded his drink to turn towards it.

The wolf was the color of grand storm clouds heavy with rain, or better yet reminiscent of the slate walls that had made up shifting mountains that pierced the clouds. He was a memory of someone yet not, though Solpallur felt the tickle of fleeting, fraying threads of another life whisk by. His eyes were haunting, aglow with a touch of something else. Interest? Perhaps—Solpallur already found him interesting but not enough to approach. He could stare him down from a distance, his body language dictating questions he would not speak.