Silver Moraine tell me, mockingbird

faust moved like the wind that swept across the valley, steady, unrelenting, carving paths through ice and stone with a presence that needed no announcement. his breath curled in the frigid air, his muscles coiled beneath his thick pelt, honed by the land that had made him. the glacier was his kingdom, the valley his charge, and he patrolled it with the watchful eyes of a wolf who trusted nothing that had not been tested.
he smelled him before he saw him—the scent of the deep forest clinging to a lean frame, foreign against the crisp, frozen winds. faust slowed. a stranger. his tail rose instinctively, a display of quiet authority, though his approach was not yet hostile. he did not fear trespassers, but he did not tolerate them either.
you are not from here, his voice rumbled low, sharp like the ice beneath his paws. his green eyes burned, assessing the male with a steady, unyielding gaze. the stranger smelled of distant lands, of pine and damp earth—not of the glacier, not of the valley, not of the wolves who called this place home.
he did not ask why he was here. if the man had sense, he would offer that answer himself.