Dragoncrest Cliffs return of the pistolero

Njord heard the teen’s abrupt call. Prey. He hurried in her direction like the steam engine Snow-piercer, making easy work of the drifts in his path. Slowly, he was becoming more adapted to life in the North of Teekon. His endurance increased as his winter pelt grew plush to fend off bitter cold. New strength build atop his frame from the constant plowing of snow. He was beginning to look less and less than the islander Erzulie had met upon the moors and more like a man who belong in the taiga’s coast.

He found Haunt quickly and moved besides her, silently prowling. He could see the doe struggling to move. An injury? Kigipigak’s vexing insults haunted the seafarer in the back of his mind as his hot breath furled like smoke in the quiet, windless air. He was hungry. They all were. He would not let a prize like this escape from them.

Cerulean gaze flickered to Haunt as he paused. Perhaps others would join them shortly.