Little Goat Mountain that he is to take possession before Michaelmas,

"byll," came the boyish croon. "byll. where the fuck are you?"
back, back, back — he'd come back for her, and she wasn't even here. buffalo snorted loudly, splattering urine across the pristine snow. he wasn't marking, he told himself with a wry chuckle. just takin' a piss. but if his piss pissed off some pissant, so be it.
the man rolled his shoulders, hale beneath the ragged blanket of bright red he wore across his withers and muzzle. it was the family way, or so he'd been told. or not really told, more what he had gleaned as a boy from his mother's ravings.
"byll!" buffalo was mad now, mad his crazy sister had run off, mad he couldn't sleep without her narrow body in his arms, mad, mad, "mad!" he shouted until his voice echoed in the woodland.
movement caught his eye. another wolf passing through, probably looking for the same thing. probably not, buffalo scoffed with a dry titter, his own pale paws carrying him after the stranger. "hey!" came a sharp bark from the wraith's throat; historically, buffalo wasted no time in making sure he was noticed, and today was no exception.