Haunted Wood what do we say to the god of death? not today

Roarke is easily stirred awake by the sound of approaching footfalls. A gasp tears itself from his muzzle and he slinks deeper into the log, ears pinning against his skull as he realizes it is not The Stranger. There is no more trust left in Winter’s Bane — not for The Stranger and not for the woman whom calls out to him but at least The Stranger offers some familiarity that Roarke is desperate for. The tundrian acknowledges that his choices here are extremely limited. He will not survive without an adult, without a pack and it is clear that the mysterious stranger has no intentions of returning. The instinct to survive is far too prevalent and in this Roarke knows in his bones that there is no real choice. He must heed the call of the woman. He is a lion and he will not be afraid. He is Winter’s Bane and he will not be afraid. He draws in a uneven breath that trembles upon his lips and slowly army crawls to the mouth of the log, milky blue irises making their transition to glacial blue take in the shadow clad woman. He does not believe her and the longer fur of his developing mane bristle with unease and clear warning. He is a warrior and he will not be afraid.

“Who are you?” He demands of her as he steps out of his log and pushes himself to his full height. It is not an impressive sight. He still bears the pudge of infancy despite that he has entered his stage of rapid growth. It shows promise of what is to be: impressively sculpted musculature honed by pursuit of mercenary trade …but puberty has not yet come to pass. No doubt, she has heard him calling out for his mother but unaware he had done so at all Roarke aims to put on a show, to don a persona that is not him. Like his mother from her stories! The thought offers him a small sliver of comfort and a wave of courage to steel his nerve.