Nova Peak frostfall

1/5

Wavering moonlight struggles to be seen through the heavy brushstroked clouds overhead.  The air is thick, muggy, and clouded with smoke from a far-away fire.  The night before had found the ironclad vagrant bound to the foot of the mountain seeking refuge from the smoke, but the wind had shifted and for now it had cleared enough for him to try his hand at clearing the mountain.  He had approached from the north among the long-scorched foothills as soon as the temperatures began their evening plummet.  His travels had led him past the burned sentinels that had once been a buffer for the frigid mountain winds and into a division of lush evergreen.

The vagabond stopped before a slow-moving trickle of icemelt to refresh himself.  Soon he would think about finding a more shielded place to rest for the night, but for now this would do.

Wandering is second nature to the inkstain; she has pledged herself, but she will not be tied down, not yet. Possibly not ever. She drifts past the borders without a second thought, marking them as she leaves — that's the strangest part, she thinks. She's spent so long on the run, careful to never leave her scent too heavily in any area — and now she does the opposite.
She spends most of the day far north, and finds herself reluctant to start the journey back. She drags her feet a bit, lingering and waffling until she picks up a scent trail through the smoke. She follows it through the long-burned section of forest into an area seemingly untouched, and shortly glimpses the stranger through the trees. The yearling isn't sure what makes her seek the company of a stranger over her new packmates, but she doesn't question it. Instead she slips through the foliage towards the figure bent over a trickle of melting ice, chuffing to announce herself.

He becomes aware of her presence as her footfalls are betrayed by a lapse in the cutting mountain winds.  The man's short ears turn in her direction before he raises his maw from the water, and he meets her with a stare that is pointed but not unkind.  If he had been guarding a kill the story might be different, but water was more often than not a bountiful resource and Tsiokwaris was not concerned about sharing with the woman.

She is a visual contradiction.  Her features are sharp, and although the woman is small she is built.  Her fur appears to be well-kept but it is windblown.  She moves with practiced silence, yet does not attempt to hide.  He licks away the cold droplets of water that cling to his muzzle and chuffs back.

He only rises and returns her chuff — a curious, silent creature. Her head tilts slightly to one side, undeniably intrigued and unwilling to break this game of silence just yet. She dares a few more steps forward, slow and confident; should he respond with aggression at any point in her approach, she will halt, but otherwise she draws nearer until less than a yard separates them.
One side of her mouth draws up in a playful, crooked smile, expression all confidence and intrigue. Many thoughts flit through her mind, but none quite reach the tip of her tongue — she's intent on the stranger breaking the silence first, if the silence is to be broken. So she waits, perfectly still save the gentle swish of her tail.

He is not a man who likes games, but he is also simple.  He does not realize that to break the silence between them would offer the girl a sense of self-satisfaction.  Perhaps he never will.  She moves with graceful yet arrogant confidence towards his massive, lumbering form.  Stiff-legged he closes another yard or two and extends thick neck in her direction, head cocked at an angle so that the leathers of his nose might work out an origin.

She takes his movement as an invitation, taking another step forward — then another, so she's just within his personal space. The yearling lowers her head, posture relaxing into something almost submissive; not quite, but the hint is there. Pausing a beat to be sure the reception will not include teeth (and if the threat is there, she will retreat), she extends her own neck slightly to sniff at the stranger, a slow and exaggerated inspection. There's an undertone to her movements that is hard to miss — desire, perhaps, or at least the projection of it.