Dawnlark Plains θ

it is the call of the hunt that draws him forth. flanking at the side of the bearman, moving with strides that eat at the snowy plains, a vigor rushing his veins. there is strength in silence of the two men. blackfell is eager to drink it in, to bask in this temporary leave from all.
to turn his mind to the task ahead is easy; he nudges himself onwards, searching through the snow for hint of prey. branching away from the stinking man at an angle, casting his head downwards to scan the ground with greater precision.
looking over to inspect the man for a moment. an experienced hunter, one blackfell would be glad to hunt aside. and in that: a potential for alliance. it was not possible to remain neutral, not permanently—not in this world, in this life. to take up arms was to breathe, to live. it was the way of the norseman. to fight.
he catches both scent and tracks, coming to a slow stop for just a moment to flag at the man. then, they fell into step once more. blackfell searching to take the flank, dropping his dark hide amongst the brush where he would be best hidden in the bright expanse.