Blackfoot Forest patron saint of lightening bolts

there is awareness; gradual but a growing thing that creeps into his chest, devouring at him like an unwelcome parasite. approaching footfalls draw his ears to cup forth atop his skull, and lips stained pink with fresh blood to curl back in an physical warning as the shadowborn emerges, the ferns whispering in his wake. a second figure is quick to join: as white as fresh snowfall and an unease begins to blossom rapidly in the wake of awareness. he has not came across any scents that would mark this place as claimed but being outnumbered puts him on edge; the same edge, the same fight or flight instincts as young leonidas felt cornered between hungry, gaunt gazes of wolves and the edge of the mountain.

fight or die.

tyr draws in a breath, slow and steady around the cooling corpse of his once meal. he has devoured what he wants from it, leaving ( as he planned on doing ) scraps for pitiful scavengers. he is a warrior. he is god named.

and he does not trust these strangers. one; alone, would've been fine. a second that flanks the ebony man ( and a third he does not yet know of, on her way ) makes him feel like he's being cornered. he is leonidas and they ...they are the hungry wolves with gaunt and hellish eyes. except, there wasn't anything particularly hellish about either of them and his hostility is not prickled out of fear but out of the sheer instinct to survive, kicked into a nightmarish overdrive by being lone.

hello. the ebony man calls across the distance as turquoise gaze studies them both thoroughly. a squint and a sharp breath taken, drawing in what he could decipher of their scents from the courtesy distance between them. hello. tyr responds. it only seems polite to echo it back and to allow the tension of his shoulders to ease minutely.