Autumn was coming to its venerable age, time passing and leaving it only the remnants of its second month before it before it fell to its last, winter hungry to take over as chills crept into the land. Even in the predawn breath already billowed where colder weather was more frequent, white, crisp, and the days fell from comfortable to chilly, the temperature falling steadily as the cold set in, creeping through like a plague, the seasons turning on inevitably. Soon, soon, the lands would be laden with snow, the pokemon hidden away or else decked in their thickest coats to brace the season, the peoples of the land fled to warmer places or bundled away and secluded within the comfort of homes. Yet the coming of winter bore it's own beauty as the world died away in a burning glory, to renew itself with spring, and the chill spreading across the land brought with it the stinging clarity of change as it froze all away.

Cool—scented with crisp promise of snows and the dying of the season, the last of the leaves falling like embers from their trees as venerable woods laid themselves bare to brace the harsh chills—the winds drifted through the warm pocket of summery space nestled amidst the base of the mountain paths known so well and familiarly, its crisp taste a promise of what lay to wait ascending the peaks into the early winters. A luxury and distant almost forgotten comfort, the warmth that seeped into clothing and nestled there, that brushed against tanned skin and melted into bones, breaking rigidity into fluidity with its gentle touch, turning stiffness towards purpose. Eyes watched, some almost familiar in a way of distant passing memory long grown old and changed, some strange, burning with a suspicion and judgement, features expressive in distaste, in question, a people of a warmer land confronted with a strange beast taken from the ice and the snows to their land. It was not the first passing between the two, yet each was so distant, so fleeting, it may have seemed almost a dream haunted by a ghost more then an event in the mind, each reawakening of that meeting sour in the thoughts. They were warriors too, and strong creatures of their own, worthy of the honors given, yet the clash of ways left air sparking with tension.

Yet glances and glares, darting looks and stares, the steady pace of boots upon the earth they did not slow, the crunch of footsteps surefooted, powerful, instilled with purpose and precision. A bow nestled over soft leather bags, its wood gleaming with care, yet it's graceful length marked with scars of use, a tool deadly and efficient, it's openly and brazenly visible length of masterful crafting a match to its wielder in supple flexibility and sturdy build, the tooled hardened leather quiver with its sheath of dark fletched arrows strapped beside it leaving no doubt it was a weapon of intention not appearance, if the tawny fur pelt that draped over silken long raven locks had not been assurance enough, eyes glassy and fake where once living ones has lain, ears stiff amidst thick ruff and teeth glinting from rigid muzzle. From under this grave hood eyes were cold and steady as ice, dark set amidst rough tanned hide and grizzled fur that salt and peppered the jawline. Fur and leather, padded layers of moving tough fabric, greens and browns accented with red, red marks drawn upon the forelimbs in ink to stain in jagged patterns. The scent of the wilds mixed with a tinge of smoke, an air of the civilized and a faint aroma of soft herbs, manner stark, commanding for one of short stature, yet calm, drawn together, formal even with each pace stalking forward like that of a predator, precise, edged.

No passing greetings were made, no interactions spared, path uninterrupted by both choice and chance, before boots pressed upon the floor of a structure, worn leather silent of and squeaking or creaking and the thump of their weight soft, almost scuffed to the point of being a whisper of sound. The morning was early still, sun newly born at the horizon of the skies, light spilling golden-blue upon a heaven chased with grey-white clouds that drifted hazily above, the day yet begun, as the door to the Waypoint gave to calloused digits, admitting entrance to a quiet work space, black boots treading upon the floor. Dark eyes glanced about though little else moved as steps stopped, muscles rigid and frozen in strict absence of movement. Remnants of presences filled the room though it was abandoned in the moment, the rich scent of coffee in the air, papers upon a desk and pen left forgotten beside them, the susurrus of voices whispering through the air from other rooms to sharp ears. Gloves touching rolled fabric, fur-lined leather braces touching bare skin marked with crimson, limbs crossed to rest across one another, a patient stillness settling in until another breath disturbed the air and another presence should frequent the room of momentary dwelling.