Stavanger Bay The coffin-bangers were about to arrive.

it is on a patrol that the scent of a stranger is caught over the salty brine and musky rot of sea creatures left behind by the receding tides catches wintersbane’s attention. the tundrian follows it along the shifting sands, pace steady and polar gaze keen upon the shore for any sign of the wolf who did not belong on their bay. technically, it wasn’t enough to warrant attack as it wasn't technically trespassing: he’d long since known that until they became full-fledged there would be interlopers but there was enough wolves in the filling ranks of the clan to warrant the possessiveness that swells beneath his breast; and the sharp prowl to his step.

he finds the silver pelaged male out on the rocks moor had taken him a few days ago ( the crab incident he doesn’t want to think about ). he lets out a bark, hackles bristled and tail rising over his back in blatant display of dominance to accompany his command for attention.

this bay belongs to ironclan, stranger, perhaps there was something that tickles at the very corner of wintersbane’s brain that sees something perhaps familiar in the male but his pelage colors weren’t uncommon and wintersbane has seen plenty of wolves in his time. he is unable to make the connection that he has, indeed, seen this male before a very long time ago when he was but a cub fresh out of the birthing den with his siblings. it is no longer free to traverse or hunt upon.

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