Gyrfalcon's Keep your mouth pressed to his

new toon + first thread = i have no idea who he is or what i'm doing.

a snort is followed closely by they call that a mountain? in a scoff. pale moonbeam gaze studies the squat, desolate mountain that's not much more than a tall, rocky hill with a quirk of his brow and a sardonic edge to his voice that did little to filter the fact that he was throughly unimpressed. wandering the coast — where he entered these lands they call teekon wilds — have proved to be, thus far, as unexciting as any other region outside of the wilds that he ventured to and eventually through. and the gyrfalcons are proving to not be company he wishes to spend a prolonged amount of time among.

he lingers in the northern edge of the territory, ghosting along the fringes of the woodland surrounding the keep and though it helps to be a bit of a sound barrier between him and the constantly squawking avians from their nests it's not exactly noise cancelling and he still hears their calls to one another like that annoying, pet-peeve noise that makes him cringe and grind his teeth together with the seething impatience of a ( young ) man about to lose his cool. it a dangerous line to toe, he knows.

with a roll of his eyes and a low rumble of discontent he sticks to the fringes of the treeline, using it as a rough guide — stumbling his way through these wilds was not apart of his plan but even the best laid and vetted plans are subject to abrupt shifts that end up rending them moot anyway. you couldn't control everything; a lesson severin had learned the hardest of ways.

a discontent huff press from betwixt his lips and he gives his dark coat a shake, velveteen ears fluttering back to rest against his skull as if it might block the raucous noise of the gyrfalcons. it does not. instead it just gives severin an appearance of having a resting, contemptuous bitch face ( a look, he's been told, that he does very well ).