Deepwood Weald in this cocoon of velvet darkness

a sweep of polar gaze is given; black leathery nostrils flaring as wintersbane takes a moment to drink in the pack scent that clings heavily to the stranger’s pelage. it nags at him in its familiarity but he cannot place where he’s scented it before; even so, it does not bring with it any sort of name or place. yeah, wintersbane drawls, lips quirking into a small smile. i'm fairly certain the dead heard you singing. wintersbane teases with an amiable chuckle.

for a moment, he’s reminded of lotte …and by extension his uncle dagfinn who apparently was also a bard.

you a bard? wintersbane inquires, equating the need to sing ( a need he has never possessed ) to being in a good mood.

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