Duskfire Glacier part of me addicted to the moment

The early morning was chilled though admittedly a tad bit warmer than his previous mornings in the Teekon Wilds had been; marginally warmer than the winters that stole through Odinn's Cove, more oft than not weeding out the weak and fragile of them. As cruel as it undoubtedly was, this hadn't been taken to be an ill omen to the seiðr. It did what they could not: kill their own for nothing more than being elderly or sickly. There was no worse crime than killing one of your own pack lest it was a sanctioned and recognized duel — of which was always a fight to the death. This was simply their way of life: to surrender was to be nothing less than cowardly. To lose a fight and gain death and possible entrance to Valhalla...that, in and of itself, was a prize worthy of any brave warrior. To many outsiders, Valr had come to learn during his gypsy-like style of living over the past year, this way of thinking was morbid to them. Valr did not understand their natural unease of death, of what was perhaps unknown to them. Perhaps it was because he knew where he would go when he died, believed so fiercely in the existence of his Gods and their halls.

He kept pushing north (though he would soon run out of north within the teekon wilds) though his venture had taken and, for the moment, kept him from the coast. He missed the constant roar, sometimes gentle and sometimes ferocious, of the ocean; he missed the salty brine that made the tendrils of his fur sticky with the salt water. He missed it but he had came to the conclusion that it might be very possible that he would not find a pack that touched the coast; and if he did not then he would have to settle for something further away. If he could find a pack to take him, anyway. That was the next challenge he would have to face when the time came. For now, he was surviving, and taking the opportunity to explore around the free territories.

This exploration had taken him to seek the shelter of the maple and pine trees of Duskfire Glacier, his intent being the very heart of the territory though what he expected to find there, he did not know.

It was natural for him to travel. It was in his blood: his father, a coydog wanderer who fled the moment his mother was declared pregnant. His mother, a wolf of a nomadic pack that travelled through that geyser-filled valley he was born in. Wandering was in his genes, his lifestyle. It didn't surprise him that he wandered away from Sleeping Dragon, he was only surprised at how long it took.

Hush did not intend on going far from the mountain. He travelled north, past its peak, to the other side of this little mountain range. There was a large white monolith there - unyielding and stoic even as the days grew warmer. Hush marveled at its size, for he had never seen an icecube that big before. It intrigued him, pulled him towards it. Most things did.

The coywolfdog entered the forest that stood at the bottom of this great glacier, his nose twitching as he looked around. In the grips of winter there was little here. His sister, he thought, would like this place very much; it was quiet, it was empty. The thought of her made his heart twinge in pain. Where was she? Where could she have gone? Quiet didn't even tell him where she was going or what she was doing before she left and there were times that he feared that she could be dead. She was even more of a wanderer than he was.

Distressed at the thought of his sister, Hush flopped down, allowing himself a chance to think and contemplate. He had left initially not because he felt the call to wander, but because he wanted to find her. He had lost sight of this goal, especially now that he had finally settled down. Should he go to find her again? Where would she even be?