Big Salmon Lake valleys formed where the wolf had lain
January 11, 2018, 11:04 AM
Lone Wolves

Most of the sweet treats that summer and early fall produced were gone — eaten by birds, by deer, by bears and by rodents, by coyotes and by other wolves. Skwol searched anyway, managing to find the odd berry here and there that still clung to the frost-tipped branches. Once, he had even found a small apple buried beneath the snow. Incisor imprints from a deer told him he had not been the first to find it but he would be the one to finish it. One crunch and he understood why the deer had abandoned it. Bitter. The wolf swallowed anyway and then shook his head, smacking his tongue and making faces.

He broke the treeline just as the sun was really starting to shine. So early in the morning the forest was cold and damp; he welcomed the day that dawned with open skies and the warmth that seeped past his guard hairs and warmed his skin. In the dead of winter, days like these were a rare gift. The white wolf tipped his nose up to capture the sun's rays on his muzzle as he made for the lake in the distance. He longed for spring and summer, for a smooth basking stone by a river's edge, but he would take the gift offered to him and enjoy it while he could. Skwol knew there were trials ahead.

Nearing the lake, the white wolf picked up on a scent beneath the snow and started to dig, his massive paws flinging great clumps of snow behind him. He hit the hard stuff soon — the compacted snow and ice — but he scratched and scratched, and then took to widening to hole by digging at the softer banks. He had dug so far that his head and shoulders disappeared, and all that remained visible was his rump and a joyfully wagging tail, accompanied by the sounds of scratching, and digging, and snuffling and snorting.
January 15, 2018, 10:41 AM
The she-wolf knew that things between the Caldera and Blackfeather would come to their head, soon. She left her territory now and then to check for word from Towhee, though none ever came. She imagined her friend was busy with that preparation. If her friend needed her help, she would come. Still, Hydra checked by ranging out from the familiarity of Moonspear and into the Wilds. There were other fish she had informed she would fry if they were within her claimed vicinity, and so it was never a pointless errand. 

Since their last interaction Vaati had not returned. This pleased her immensely. Korei Julia also was still missing, and every day Hydra strayed from the borders of Moonspear she fret that she might find yet another pale corpse. It seemed inevitable. But maybe she had found someone to take care of her simple self; no doubt, that would be her only chance of survival. In knowing their were softhearted wolves like Rannoch in the wilds, it was not hard to hope this. It was too bad Rannoch didn't have his own pack, still. 

Maybe I ought to encourage him to found a new one, she thought to herself idly. She had no idea what the Vale had been like, but she imagined it to be a pack filled to the brim with white knights. That would be the perfect environment for Moonspear's glass-boned Korei Julia.

The sound of digging distracted her. Hydra's attention shifted as she made way toward the source of the commotion, and was met with the sight of a wolf as pale as the snows he dove into flinging the stuff everywhere. Hydra swung wide around, head low and ears pricked, her own nose trying to pick up on what his had. She froze where she stood as she caught the strength of the scent by her—no doubt the critter was trying to escape. 

Hydra chuffed to the other to alert them of this new development he might have missed in all of his apparent joy at the task he had been preforming.

I'll find that you'll find that I'm lethal
January 16, 2018, 08:57 AM
Lone Wolves

It was an ermine that he had scented. Mustelid musk was pungent and hard to miss even beneath the snow; Skwol was well aware that the weasel had moved on from this spot. But while the mall predator's presence had started the white wolf digging, he had continued for the enjoyment of the action itself. For the feel of his hard nails scraping and churning the snow and ice, for the work of the powerful muscles in his limbs, and for the momentary distraction it provided to his presently aimless life.

Skwol stopped digging and throwing snow when he heard the chuff, plush ears cupping backwards and sideways to listen and pinpoint. He lifted his head. Several inches of snow had gathered across his broad snout and head, and flakes clung to the fur on his brows and cheeks. He shook himself clean and blinked as he focused on the black wolf before him. Instinctively, he tried to take in her scent, but immediately squinted and made a face as crystals tickled this inside of nose, drawing a sudden sneeze-snort from him.

Nostrils clear now, he could smell her — and the mischievous ermine too. Skwol gingerly took a step forward, concentrating with his ears strained forward, to hear the scrabbling of tiny claws beneath the snow. This was the art of the fox. But Skwol was no fox. His pounce was not a limber leap with a swan dive. When he dove forward he sent a wave of snow flying at the she wolf, driving his face into the snow only for the weasel to shriek and come bounding off his skull, before scampering across his spine and sailing off his hindquarters.