the rite of spring ;

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It wasn't often that the mountain king wandered so far from the summit, but what kind of king would he be if all he ever knew was what lay tucked away at home? Both of his parents had traveled to see other lands and learn of neighboring groups. They had gained stories and unmeasurable experiences he could only fathom, and so he too would wander.

For it being winter, the path out of the woods had been easy. The snow that coated the ground was light as air, clinging in powder against the guard hairs along his frame. For all the beauty his home held, there was something special seeing another land, similar yet different, as snow-covered hills rolled into the horizon. A deep, childish laugh rumbled from his throat as he bound and lept with heavy paws through the wonderland.

Moments like these reminded him that even if he was now High King, he was still considered a child. For a while longer, at least.
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His romp would come to a still as a voice carried over the snow. The golds of his eyes quickly turned to the sound to find a woman, or a girl maybe. She didn't look much older than him, if anything, but her voice had sounded much smaller compared to her frame. Runar cleared his throat, an attempt to hide the heat that pricked his pelt upon realizing he hadn't been alone, “Ah, just Runar.”

The High King's head tilted owlishly as he braved a step closer, “And you, Miss?” She looked cold, and by the gods it was cold, but it was more than that. It was as if she had been out here for too long, without shelter, without company— at least he assumed from the lack of scents that clung to her fur. “Are you alright?” The chatter of fangs did not pass him, nor the way snow still clung to her pelt like a soft blanket.
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A huff pressed his nostrils, the heat spiraling in a whispy cloud as it breached the cold, “Gwendolyn looks cold.” Runar's brows tugged with concern as his eyes glanced back to snow-laden hills. It was hardly a place to take shelter. The dips helped break the wind, but if you were unlucky, they would only amplify the gusts as they carved the lowlands. The mountains were not better at a glance, but at least Vanderfell had forest and caverns to find some respite. Even rock faces could help bend the wind's will if it came from the right direction.

“Unclaimed foothills, Runar does not have name, but they are no place for shelter. Can you walk? Warm blood, keep joints in motion.” He paused, lips twisting as he failed to bite back his questions, “...You...have family? Home to warm?” Invasive, maybe, but he did not want her to freeze. Though, given her reaction, he feared she may be like the others who found themselves in this land. Displaced by gods and left to start anew, only she had come at a most unfortunate time.
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