Moonspear all my friends are heathens

A nomad at heart—Argent’s icy eyes would study the sunspire mountains every so often, tempted by the call of them. Was Mahler still there? It was possible—and yet the last time he had seen the man, he hadn’t been well.

The mountain would claim another, he supposed, and not wishing to visit the ghost of his father, at least not yet, the wintered wolf found himself at the borders of another pack—fresh, perhaps?—on yet another mountain.

A sucker for punishment, perhaps.

His eyes were unreadable as he studied the area around him now—large form towering against the snow drifts before tipping his muzzle up, releasing a beckoning howl to those who claimed this as home—it was time to settle for at least a bit.