Permafrost Hollows otherwise they would not be worshipped

the vartija scouting thread || part i.

if wintersbane could sweat he'd be drenched in it. that cold sweat brought forth from something that is equal parts exciting and dreadful. maybe it was the mouth of the cavern he'd taken refuge in long enough to get a few hours of sleep — using the abysmal shadows to hide him from immediate view of anyone venturing this way — maybe it was his constant and nagging worry about blackfeather woods' future and their withering numbers but his dreams were not peaceful. it's been a long time since he's had a nightmare of any sorts but flashes of it still linger, imprinted on the forefront of his mind.

there was a change and chill in the winds that had nothing to do with winter and everything to do with the tundrian himself. he'd set out from blackfeather woods in order to broker some tentative peace between them and the packs that are hungry for their blood and yet, the direction he ventures, following a gut instinct that he cannot place ( presumably guided by mephala's hand ) takes him far away from either of the packs with whom the tensions that birth wars linger. war from either one of those packs — let alone both — would bring nothing but slaughter.

he notes as he makes his way across the sunspire mountains that there are new packs that he doesn't remember being there previously in the area and thus he keeps going, heading towards the taiga where the pack scents dwindled and thin to nothing. as far as he can tell thus far the taiga appears entirely unclaimed. it's been some time since he's thought about it — about striking out on his own. why had he needed to? he'd been happy in blackfeather woods.

he knows why he's out here. he knows it like the unheard thrum of his heartbeat, steady like a war drum within it's prison of flesh and bone. he's tried to convince himself that it wasn't true — but the evidence is indisputable. it presses on him that he must keep his word, that he must try to do what he can for them before he parts ways with them — and more importantly he needs to make sure he tells them he's leaving. to not do like he's done so many times before and simply vanish without a word and a trace.

he will, he assures himself as he pushes himself to his paws and stretches, stepping out of the mouth of the cavern and into the early morning light. the sun hasn't yet began it's ascension and the clouds overhead drift, skirting over the half crescent moon. he ventures away from the base of the mountain in search of breakfast to quiet the rumble of his stomach for a few hours. he follows the eerie yip of a fox and dispatches it with relative ease. once his stomach is full he discards what's left of the corpse for the scavengers and continues exploring the the hollow, thoughts heavy with the weight of what this might ultimately mean.