Ravensblood Forest it is the stones for altars

wintersbane's steps slow a pace again, favoring a careful gait to guide him though now. he draws in a breath, noting how thick the ( always sickly sweet ) air feels as it settles in his lungs before he lets it out in a breath that almost sounds more like a sigh. he brushes against the rough trunk of a sequoia, making a face as he steps away with a bit if sticky sap clinging to the tendrils of his fur but otherwise does not bother to stop and clean it from his pelage. not yet, anyway. once he is free of the infernal fog cloaked forest that has suddenly become a labyrinth despite that he's navigated through it numerous times he will clean himself up a bit he tells himself.

there is a figure seen through the fog — an unclear silhouette that wintersbane does not realize is real until he draws ever nearer. the hackles at the nape of his neck bristle with the unease of coming across someone he does not know. except — ignoring the subtle differences in scent easily masked by the sickly sweet scent of sap — recognition dawns on him. aure? the tundrian calls out to the man that looks just like her — at least from between the fog that writhes yet between them.