Sinistra
Sinistra glared skywards, abysmal pupils narrowing in their pools of frosted, pale blue as he studied the grim looking sky. He had the intuition that his uncle had been graced with when it came to skywatching. It was going to rain, if the thick, grey clouds in the distance were of any indication (and they were of an accurate indication, mind); it was going to rain like a bitch, at that. The DiSarinno scowled slightly to himself, picking up his previously leisurely pace. It wasn't a natural talent that he considered to be a talent if only because Sinistra had a habit of taking advantage of it. He had set upon learning weather patterns and star alignments a long time ago and became one of those things he had gotten used too. It was nothing for him to determine if it was going to storm, or if a winter or summer was going to be harsh or not. Some wolves considered that ability to be mystical or in tune with the earth. To Sinistra it was as easy as a human reading script. He had learned how to do it and all the signs were there if only the signs were taken into account.
Getting caught in a rainstorm was not, admittedly, on the top of his to do list, though he would endure it if he was given no other choice — which it appeared would be the case. Autumn was already upon these lands, the spicy scent of to be dying trees and plants gave it away, as did the slight chill in the air. It was a reprieving countenance against the hot, muggy days of the summer but even so it whispered of colder days to come. When survival would be tested with the migration of herds and frigid temperatures tested their wills. Pace slowed again when he caught the scent of a nearby pack on the wind; black leathery nostrils flaring as he slowed, before he became too close to their borders. It was there he paused, tilted his head back and let out a howl, alerting them to his presence just as the sky opened up and rain began to fall to in a soft drizzle.