Snowforest Taiga nibinaboug jiske

the wind shifts. carries the scent of the herd, the sharp musk of the bull. the huntsman is called by it and finds himself instinctively drifting closer, licking at old blood that still stained his maw.
later, he would need to wash.
ulfric stands downwind now, silent and still. the earth is soft beneath his paws, the dry brush bending without a sound as he watches her—a huntress, golden in the morning light, moving with the ease of one born to it.
there is a slight twitch of his mouth, perhaps into a smile; it fades just as quickly. he presses on, moving past trees quietly, almost as if he were one of them.
he would join her hunt, if she'd allow him.