Ravensblood Forest all gods who receive homage are cruel

for @Huntington

wintersbane hates the coast. he'd never been a fan of sand and now it holds unpleasant memories of the words his sister — was malliadh his sister anymore? — had used to cut him through the flesh and to the bone and the fight that had ensued. he'd came out of it the victor but the next time he would not be so merciful to her, he knows. ...still, venturing far and wide for potential recruits to blackfeather woods was necessary and the coast was a necessary evil in his plight.

their numbers dwindled well past what made wintersbane comfortable ...and maybe the daedra called for it's fall ...so that something new could start. but if that was the will of the gods then so be it; but wintersbane'd never been an idle beast and he will not the fall of the dark woods come without a fight. so he ventures out and his venture takes him to the familiar territory of ravensblood forest with it's tall sentinels that weep glossy red sap.

a light snow had begun to fall and blankets the forest floor in dustings of snow that managed to drift it's way through the cracks in the canopy above. snowfall — depending on how much — might hinder his return trip a bit ...but he is a tundrian and this is the weather he is built for after all.

unlike the other, she is not built for the snow. her steps would be slowed if not for her longer limbs carrying her over some banks. the woman walks as quietly as possible; an art she had come to near-perfect in the days on this earth. the future in this particular realm uncertain, though inquisitive enough, and she wonders if she will stay long. no ties had been given. no deeper meaning behind her aimless wanders. or perhaps it is the fault of other people, for having no effect on her being?

she does not actively seek them out. these connections others boast of, these fanciful fleets upon the mind leading to things beyond her understanding. friendship - those people who would let you down. romances - ultimately betrayed by a one you had loved. she heard the stories. she did not need to experience them. enemies and rivals tended to be more honest. though she did lack finding one that would measure up to her. 

and this one would be no different, she mused silently within her mind, having caught sight of another. she slowed her pace, watching him from the depths of the treeline. he smelt of a pack - of many wolves - though the location and their goals were foreign to her. she did not know the name of their community. the scent was not known through the others she had met so far. Huntington chose to watch further, speaking no words to him. if he passed her entirely by, she too would continue to walk away.

wintersbane hears softened footfalls nearby and though his pace does not quicken nor slow, his ears cup forth and swivel to pinpoint the location as they slow. the weight of eyes bearing into him sends a shiver down his spine and his hackles bristle at his nape on instinct. no one reveals themselves even as his steps knowingly slow and then draw to a cease all together. he draws in the scents of the forest around him, sorting and compartmentalizing through the sharp scent of pine, the sickly sweet smell of the sap and beyond that the through-traffic these woods sees. some scent trails are older than others.

one is stronger than the others and it lingers nearby. glacial eyes rove the shadows until they land and focus upon the woman. cloaked mostly in shadows with a coat that is ( from what he can see ) primarily dark itself it is her white face and bizarre facial markings that draw and hold his curious and keen eye. do you always make it a habit to watch strangers? he tactlessly inquires.

"not all" she told him bluntly, uncaring by her watchful gaze of him. "only those with a shred of intelligence." he did appear sharper than the dull-bladed fools who made the wilds their home. they had no passion to learn more. so caught in their personal tasks to see beyond themselves. and what the world had to offer them. though this was a mere assumption, that this man had any intelligence. he could disappoint her just like the rest of them. she would not get her hopes up. not at all.

"though I could be wrong" she added in a small attempt at a tease. he held her gaze long enough and did not look away. he was not disturbed by her features; something she had come to expect from others in this land. they wanted to assume the worst of her, and therefore she gave them it. condescending, holier-than-thou... she would gift them only their own mistakes. the man held a scent unfamiliar to her, however. "which pack do you hail from?

she corrects him bluntly, stating that she only watches those with a shred of intelligence. a soft snort leaves wintersbane's black, leathery nostrils, supposing that he should take her word as a compliment. still, it struck him as satirical at the implication that she doesn't think many have a shred of intelligence. maybe you are wrong, the dark brother supplies her tease with a lofty rise and fall of his broad shoulders. how do you judge one's intelligence by how they look? he inquires of her with an arrogant flick of an ear.

her question is as a blunt as the first words she spoke to him and though he admires her balls, he also finds her demand to be irritating and it projects itself in the set of his shoulders and the satirizing hum that sounds deep in his throat. the laugh that escapes him as patronizing as the hum that proceeds that. now i'm wounded, the tundrian draws. i don't give information like that for free, especially when i don't see how useful giving that information to you is for either of us. wintersbane asserts

he seeks answers for her replies. yet something told her that he would find no satisfaction in any she spoke. "your eyes are brighter than most" she admits in her quiet tone "they are not dulled with anxiety nor stupidity. they have a spark to their coldness. suggesting a depth that most do not have." it was quite simple, really. she did not say how intelligent he was. he could have a ten percent above average. he could have ninety percent. the fact remained that Huntington saw some life to them. compared to the dullness of the basic ones.

she sought only a name for the pack, though he was quite keen to keep it to himself. no matter. she merely stared openly at him, unblinking. the passing spark of interest lost. must not be keen on new members if one could not even ask the name of such a place. though she could easily pluck the scent clinging to his coat out on her travels, applying it to the location matching. "then keep it close" she does not sound unkind though she does not sound offended either. a mere statement. 

wintersbane almost doesn't expect her to respond and when she does speak he is quiet, giving her his rapt attention because despite his cynicism on the matter he is ( more than ) vain enough to be curious. she can look at him and see intelligence. a useful skill, he thinks. she explains that it's his eyes — and the tundrian can't help the small grin that unfurls at the edges of his lips that fades as quickly as it appears as the dark brother lets out a quiet and contemplative hum. that's a useful talent. he remarks — a compliment — gruffly with a roll of his broad shoulders.

if you really want to know i don't doubt you could find me. spoken with a quirk of his lips. a challenge? perhaps. but it occurs to them that they are strangers and though she might've been curious ( and possibly recruitable ) his unwillingness to so openly share might've lost the opportunity. he supposes that's fine. he can't be too careful. there are very large bounties on the heads of the wolves of the dark woods. for harboring mou-titmouse-screech. for taking fire as a captive; and facing the hard cold facts: blackfeather woods would not survive the next war to show up on their doorstep. so he's careful and he makes hard judgement calls even if he calls it wrong.

the strangers exchange a few more words to one another — nothing overly insightful on either side before they ultimately part ways.