The Sentinels to hate my enemies

wintersbane, the sound of his voice draws his attention from the herd he watches at a safe distance. the tundrian was never much of a hunter, beyond necessity that was; instead he favored the clash of teeth or words over the dull hours spend following and watching and waiting. tahoe, the saltlord greets as he turns glacial gaze upon the other man, fellow stormboundian; step slowing to accommodate the other man before it stops entirely.

and you, wintersbane returns in kind, before canting scarred muzzle towards the cream-tan pelts of his quarry in the distance. just checking up on the herds. he supplies despite that the other man hadn't asked. to wintersbane, it is the boring paperwork of legitimate business; a necessary evil he would rather let to someone else but not necessarily sure he can trust someone else with it ( lest they had a titled hunter in their midst ). i'm glad to be back.