Boreal played lookout high above, though she lost sight of the peryton once he stopped moving. Her eyes roamed further afield as she sought out the approach of man or beast that might interrupt the hunt-lesson going on below.
Sand wasn't snow, but the ground held a certain reminiscent treachery of uncertain footing and Tal moved across it with reasonable balance for someone so unused to the way it could slide and sink away underfoot; hard-packed and firm for one step, and unsettlingly yielding with the next. The courier spent more time alone than with other people, more used to talking to dogs and his dragon than anyone else, and silence fell comfortably around him now - so long as no more large spiders made their presence known.
Sand wasn't snow, but Tal had already discerned that they were both alike insofar as, absent a breeze, it didn't move on its own. The General's whisper brought his head up from where he was picking his path, and he squinted out to the near distance, frowning slightly. Fingers dipped into his pocket, bringing out the smoked glass goggles he used to cut snowglare with on the Tundra, and he slid them over his head with smooth economy.
Pale eyes found the disturbance in the ground, not unlike a water elemental's burgeoning mischief on the ice, and Tal gave a short nod of affirmation as his hand came to rest on one of the smaller axes on his belt; one balanced for throwing rather than chopping. He glanced over to Deimos for guidance on what would come next, survival instincts honed on the Tundra telling him that charging in swinging would be really fucking dumb.
Sand wasn't snow, but the ground held a certain reminiscent treachery of uncertain footing and Tal moved across it with reasonable balance for someone so unused to the way it could slide and sink away underfoot; hard-packed and firm for one step, and unsettlingly yielding with the next. The courier spent more time alone than with other people, more used to talking to dogs and his dragon than anyone else, and silence fell comfortably around him now - so long as no more large spiders made their presence known.
Sand wasn't snow, but Tal had already discerned that they were both alike insofar as, absent a breeze, it didn't move on its own. The General's whisper brought his head up from where he was picking his path, and he squinted out to the near distance, frowning slightly. Fingers dipped into his pocket, bringing out the smoked glass goggles he used to cut snowglare with on the Tundra, and he slid them over his head with smooth economy.
Pale eyes found the disturbance in the ground, not unlike a water elemental's burgeoning mischief on the ice, and Tal gave a short nod of affirmation as his hand came to rest on one of the smaller axes on his belt; one balanced for throwing rather than chopping. He glanced over to Deimos for guidance on what would come next, survival instincts honed on the Tundra telling him that charging in swinging would be really fucking dumb.
