Blackfeather Woods each night reunites me with the feral tenderness of my own evil

the ghosts flicker and writhe in wintersbane's vision, drawing nearer but at a pace that feels as if it's a snail's. perhaps, the tundrian considers, it is hard for them to remain manifest. hard for them to move even though the veil has lifted. or, perhaps, it has only been lifted for him and not them. does it hurt them? to try to walk through the land of the living when they cannot truly leave the land of the dead? er, the void as the wolves of blackfeather believe? he feels the pin-prickle of eyes boring into him, the fur along his spine crawling. he feels the eyes of the dark mother and the dread father staring at him. seeing into him. he looks to them and he sees them just as clearly as he assumes they see him.

but the feeling persists even as the holy duo turn to face one another. they speak again in that archaic language that the tundrian is not privy to. that bone trembling rasp that is somehow both a comfort and a tone to fear. they disappear back into the mist and shadows they were borne from and wintersbane's head swings back to his pale and scarred companion having, admittedly, forgotten he was there at all to find the other male staring at him.

so his unrelenting gaze was the third he felt searing into his flesh. the proud tundrian stares back, for while the ghosts remain the daedra have vanished for him. what does the pale man see, the tundrian wonders? he might've been flattered by the staring under normal circumstances but instead he feels tired. the high is beginning to burn itself out of his system now. there is a desire to ask the pale man what he sees but even as clarity comes back to wintersbane inch by agonizing inch the delta assumes he will get no answer, just as all his previous words have gone unanswered ( though he still does not realize he was speaking tundrian that whole time and not common ) and does not bother vocalizing his curiosity, letting it, instead linger mutedly in his expression.