Stavanger Bay silent sleeping indigo

saltbreeze mingling as it did with the sweetmusk of decaying ash leaves was potent and as the breeze almost always roils off of the sea and rarely shifts as it slithers inland, wintersbane only picks her scent up — only knows of the lingering shadewoman upon his border as he draws nearer to that particular stretch. his purpose many days is singular: mark, mark, mark. soon, once it is established enough he feels safe parting from it for hours at a time, he will seek to recruit and track the herds he knows are rutting and sheltering in the young growth of the sentinels. for now, however; his priorities remain within the bay itself.

ironclan may be little more than a territory and a territorial tundrian who lays claim to it; the barebones of an empire and it’s ideal… but it, they, are his — and he approaches the border as any ironking would as if legions stood at his back instead of dying ashtrees and idyllic coast of untarnished whitetan sands and cerulean waters the color of the nordic man’s eyes whom named it.

nevertheless, wintersbane’s approach isn’t hostile. she’s respected the border whether she intended to or not, her gaze seemingly transfixed upon the sea. he lets out a chuff to announce his presence to her, lest his heavy footfalls went unnoticed.