Sawtooth Spire As easy as rolling off a log

the howl from quellcrist that rises into the frigid morning air; made more sharp and bitter by their altitude and the stony fortress around them, breaks wintersbane out of his singular mindset focused as it was on his patrol. the master warrior casts one last keen gaze to the wilds below, stretched out before their spire before turning his back on the borders and heading inland of the spire.

it doesn't take him long to find quellcrist, mostly because of the loud argument she appears to be having with herself. correction, with herself as the rabbits. scarred brow twitches in tune with the snicker of amusement and the warring twist of concern that fights for dominance over his facial features. a rough noise of contemplation; a muddled mixture of concern and amusement rumbles in the tundrian's chest.

❝i can't quite tell who's winning, q,❞ he says with a low rumble as he prowls forward to offer his daughter an affectionate nudge to the chin if she allows him.