Sawtooth Spire the art of war is of vital

the mid-afternoon skies are as gloomy as they'd been all day: painted grey with the heavy snowfall that has been accumulating since early morning. a glimpse is given skyward, though wintersbane turns his attention back to his path; the borders of their spire. against the grey backdrop of the sky the peaks look even more isolated and terrible — he loves it. for the first time in a long time, he's felt like he's home in a very different way than how andraste had made him feel like courtfall was home. these rocks like protruding titan teeth is the very terrain he's been made for. it speaks to everything tundrian within him.

despite the heavy snowfall, wintersbane doesn't let it hinder his patrol. he pushes on, letting it accumulate upon his back without any care. after a while the snowfall begins to slow and he hits a small lull in the weather as the opaque clouds break and the sun shines thru defiantly. he lifts his leg to urinate on a scent marking before continuing forth, pausing only then to shake the layering snow from his back before continuing on, head slightly bowing towards the earth to inspect the fresh border markers.