Seaside Moors crow feathers and obsidian

tagging @Erzulie & @Aningan for visibility!

for some reason that wintersbane cannot identify, he does not stop when he draws near the towering spear that moonspear claims. he’s told several wolves it was where he would go when asked now that the door to sagtannet is firmly closed to him …and yet something tugs him wayward despite that. in truth, he knows no explanation for the spontaneity of the decision to venture coastward. not to himself and not to anyone else.

a chill nips at his thick pelage, coarse and fluffy with his wintercoat. in many ways, the tundrian looks forward to winter as a reprieve from the heat that has plagued the summerlands. he is grateful for the changing of the seasons, the subtle transition to climates more agreeable with his tundrian ancestry. the salty tang of sea air sticks to him, floating ‘round him in greeting as his pace begins to slow; nearing pack borders.

he doesn’t recognize it …though there is, maybe, something passively familiar about it; but nothing concrete enough to spark forth any true recognition. their numbers smell small …much smaller than the bolstering numbers of the spear, scented upon the wind as it carried down from the spear.

for a moment wintersbane considers but knows the choice has been made in his mind as he lifts his muzzle and lets out a low howl, announcing his presence.