Tormented Tarns and he was the man for the job; a one-man bombsquad

there is more silence in their conversation thus far then there has been words and the information they exchange is of no real importance. it's all vague, thinly veiling an unspoken level of distrust. or, this is how wintersbane chooses to interpret it at any rate. the tundrian's interest lies in information, in the small little nuances he's able to learn about others; half the fun was extracting it. mephala had many ways to get what she wanted and was not afraid to employ them all ...and it is the night mother that he feels drawn to the most. it is her voice only that has whispered to him thus far.

the question from the scarred man snaps wintersbane's attention to him in full once more and the tundrian shifts his weight before his lips part to answer, simply, yes. it wasn't a lie per say. he doesn't travel quite as much as he used to once upon a time. he's planted roots in blackfeather though necessity and the itch to stretch his legs beyond the dark woods and all of it's sub-territories draw him from it's borders. he is getting older — though still young comparatively — and his desires shift to a future similar and yet also different from the one he imagined having in his cubhood. his original ambitions remain steadfast but he also looks to the future in the hopes of starting a family of his own and he understands that such ambitions require a stability from him.

and what of you, alarian? the tundrian asks then after a sweep of his glacial gaze along the landscape behind his companion. vigilance is unconscious habit to wintersbane. are you a wanderer? he turns the question around out of idle curiosity.

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