Seaside Moors in sweet solitude of mind

night settles over the moors; frosty and tangy with salt. wintersbane’s been here a small handful of days now and trying to settle in. like each place he’s called home over the years of his existence it will, too, take some getting used to. he is not entirely free of the grating grit of sand where beach gives way to shrubbery and solid earth; persistently it clings to the green ‘round it like a parasite. perhaps, in time, he would grow to love it. or, at the very least, tolerate it. he has chosen this place; thwarting his own plans like some masochistic villain who had it out for himself. he knows what he wants and holds onto the blossoming hope that he might find it here …where he least expects to.

perhaps, he holds onto the hope, that even the damned can find redemption.

he errantly follows the border markers, pacing along them — pausing here and there to add his own scent to them. he is methodical about it but it allows himself to both memorize the layout of the land while being idly attentive.

A new member.  Perhaps, if this was to feel like theirs, she should take a bigger part in it.  Care more for it.

This thought came to Rosalyn ruefully as she watched Wintersbane stalk the borders, another titan of a man come to rest on their shores.  Just like Rosencrantz.  And just like Rosencrantz, sure to be gone in the setting sun as soon as he was done with them, a bitter echo chimed.

She maybe should have recognized him from her time in the cliffs, but she did not.  There was nothing to read Drageda in him and that time was too long past, too well shoved to the recesses of time.

Quick to claim this place, Rosalyn remarked as she approached, idly eyeing him with her good side.  You are?  Whether or not Erzulie gave her a name, she wanted to hear it from him.

quick to claim this place…

wintersbane’s head swivels in the woman’s direction; glacial gaze taking her scarred visage as she studies him with her assumed good eye. a quirk of his lips are given; some weak apparition of its corporeal form. not much effort is given simply because these wolves, all of them, are still strangers to him. though, from first meeting, he likes erzulie well enough. though, for a wild moment, wintersbane entertains the idea. that the alpha couldn’t even be bothered to make an appearance at the borders to greet who would become ( one of ) their newest recruits reflects poorly in wintersbane’s eyes.

then again, perhaps he was too much like arturo: he wanted to know what went on in and outside of his borders.

it is my home now, too. is all the tundrian offers her with a slight rise and fall of his shoulders. i’m wintersbane.

Wintersbane.  Even your name is aspirational.  She couldn't help but prod, the large and stoic were her favorite targets, and this man screamed both on first impression.  His simple 'this is my home too' amused her... it was true, perhaps, but he did not rise to her insinuation.  She wondered if, perhaps, he'd later choose to seek more.  Rusalka had been quite a long while.

Rosalyn.  She no longer held rank outside of that, not one that mattered, but she'd found with age a lack of care.  Alpha, Beta, Captain, First Mate... she did as she pleased.  She'd thought that was the case when she was younger and boasted it, but the lie had been she'd always wanted more.

Pirate or soldier, Wintersbane?  From the look of you, one has to fit.  Name, bearing, scars... how he viewed himself would tell her most of what she needed.  She didn't doubt Erzulie's taste in taking in members, but she did like to know where they stood.

softened snort pushes from black, leathery nostrils as she speaks. my mother probably thought it would help me in life. words flow from betwixt his lips as a jest. truth behind the name was much too long and too personal to give upon first meetings. little did nightingale sovereign know her bane of winter was cursed from the very moment he dawned into the world, naught but a squalling cub.

soldier. father. widow. wintersbane offers insight into his life; vague but all true. flashes of memories of relmyna ( though they were not ever truly mates ) and andraste flit across his mind’s eye; momentarily. hale tundrian allows them to drift away, skimming with nothing more than the feathersoft caress of butterfly wings.

Ah.  She wasn't in a habit of apologizing for things that were not his fault, but she was sorry to hear of it.  A judgement passed briefly that she had no place to give; where were his children, if he was a father?  It was immediately cast aside.  Where were hers?

A man of honor, then.  Honor and history.  Experiences like those made a wolf think, and she bet there was a good deal behind that quiet demeanor.  Any questions for me? Or would you rather guess?  I'd be interested to hear your thoughts.  She trained a look on him, waiting expectantly. 

If he had any, it was likely she answered them, as she'd given up the habit of hiding behind dodges.  She was too old to worry of what her past might make others suspect of her now.  She had his measure now, by any rate, though she was not at all suspecting the path he would take during his surprisingly short term among them.