Redhawk Caldera yes yes, bombay is very nice this time of year.

Quixote had been heading to the nearby mesa to try to get a view of where the fighting might take place.  He'd made several trips like this, doing his best to try to get the lay of the still-unfamiliar land, to add them to the scrawled maps he'd made in one of the least-used caves he'd found.  It had taken him away for days at a time, but each time he returned, occasionally with the odd small prey item to add to the stores to account for his absence.

All the scouting about hadn't made him the most social of wolves -- and since he was trying to do most of his wandering around on the sly, hopefully without too much of a pack scent on his fur, he'd actively avoided being too chummy to start aside from some backdated threads yet to be written.  His luck would break at some point, but for now he'd been lucky.

Perhaps that's what this was.  A break in his luck.  He was at the edge of hearing when the howl had gone up, and for the briefest of moments he thought that he'd been dreaming.  The faint echoes tugged at him.  That was real, right? From the packlands.  The snow on the ground wasn't going to make his trip back as quick as it would if this were summer, but whatever.

Quixote would be late.  And likely not fashionably due to the speed he sprinted back towards the Caldera.

By the time he arrived he'd missed the more important stuff, Finley was speaking a second time.  He kept towards the edge of the group, chest heaving, but if someone looked his way, he'd mouth, 'Scouting,' and leave it at that unless addressed directly.  Give him a bit to get his bearings, but from the sounds of this, things were moving along at a good clip.  He was almost wishing he'd stayed out of it.  He'd prefer more time.  More time to plan, to make sure everything would be right.