Wounded Pride and an Empty Stomach

She had ventured northward. Perhaps the dead of winter wasn’t the most ideal time of the year to go to the northlands of Boreas, but she’d had an adventurous hair. She was half a mind to visit the glowing lake she’d been so intrigued by during Winterfell’s festival.

A scent brushed her nose, that of a male who bore no pack scent, and she breathed in, analyzing, and noted that her way of going had become much easier—the man was ahead of her, and she’d fallen into the trench he’d left in the snow. There was little sign of belly dragging, so he must not be overly small, but the paw-prints said he wasn’t massive, either.

She padded easily along, no longer forced to forge her own path—tiring as hell these days. Eventually a dark figure stood out against the bright snowdrifts and she paused, calling out while she was well behind him, rather than close enough to be attacked if he took offense or was simply one who acted out when startled.

“Good day, stranger. I hope I’m not intruding…” Her husky mezzosoprano voice was lilted and pleasant, lacking hostility or snark, and she stayed stood where she’d halted, head cocking to see how he’d respond.

Walk ---- "Speak" ---- "Labhair an Sean-Teanga." ---- "Hear" ---- Think