After being discovered in the hollow by none other than a Moonspear wolf, Screech had lost his nerve. It didn't take much, and it sent him on a collision course with the adjacent river. He'd managed to find a shallow portion (or something close to it, but his fear did most of the work to cross the ice-strewn river regardless), and then made a bee-line north until he couldn't breath without smelling salt upon the wind. He was delirious; every little sound sent him on a mental spasm of anxiety and propelled him to keep going.

Just keep going, don't stop, or they'll get you.

He looked the part of a zombie (or more accurately a white walker) as he pulled his sore feet through the snow. When the landscape began to ascend into a rockier terrain he knew he was royally screwed, but he had to fight through it - and by the time he'd mastered the ridge, he'd found a new dawn breaking. The boy took a moment to find a secluded spot to relieve himself and then considered settling down for a nap, but with a shift to the wind he detected a layered wolf scent all around him.

Screech had unknowingly crossed close to the borders of another pack (Morningside). The thought of asking for help never crossed his mind; he merely picked up and ran, again, straight along a creek's path until he was following a narrow corridor of ice, and all around him there was the inviting shelter of a treeline. He collapsed in an exhausted heap not too long after that, a sorry sight indeed.

He was down for a solid thirty minutes before something came crawling out of nowhere after him, and the voice that accompanied the body roused him from whatever half-dead stupor he'd landed himself in. The snow crunched as he rolled on to his back, then his side, and the boy winced as his ruined cheek connected with the biting cold; but that wasn't what made him flail to his feet.

The stranger was looming too close for comfort, and what he'd said - about eating him - was horrifying. Screech got up with a lurch, but he stumbled and staggered, collapsing like a wounded deer all over again. That was almost an answer, really. Within a few minutes he was grunting and trying again but he was so sapped of energy that there was nothing he could do; he just sat there panting, frustrated and afraid, trying to get a good look at the stranger with the eye he had left.

Since he couldn't maneuver on his feet, Screech twisted on his belly instead. The more the stranger spoke the less inclined he was to believe it was an enemy but he couldn't be certain; in an effort to keep them away, he twisted and snapped his teeth at the open air, warning the wolf to stay back as best he could. 

Had Screech been paying attention to the words coming from the stranger's mouth, he'd probably have responded with a hearty eye-roll; answering that question was swiftly becoming a tedious ice-breaker (not to mention a painful trip down post-traumatic-stress-lane). The only answer he gave was the baring of his fangs and a hoarse (pathetic) groan he wished sounded more like an intimidating growl.

When the stranger began to run his mouth, Screech quieted. He listened aptly but was tense, ready to strike out if they chose to give in to temptation and do something to him. The insults slid off of him like they were mist, and he had his good eye trained upon the stranger up until the retreat.

...I'll be back when the crows circle overhead. Promised the masked man as he fled. When he was gone, Screech couldn't relax in the slightest; he felt his gut roll and thought he might be sick, but there was nothing inside of him ready to come out. He lay there while a stillness settled all around but he was anything but still - looking around from where the stranger departed to the terrain in every direction, trying to ascertain if this was a safe place for him to rest.

Not that he had a choice.

There was no way to quantify the time spent laying there once he was alone. There was a bird calling overhead—a hawk or something, likely scouring the area for napping songbirds—and a while after those calls died, he coud hear a flurry of activity (like the beating of wings) as a pair of ravens landed a few meters away. They might've been watching everything from afar but, seeing as Screech was still alive, they waited patiently.

He might've drifted to sleep at some point too, but when that flurry caught in his ears again and the scent of wolf surrounded him, Screech was suddenly alert and afraid. He startled when he heard a voice and turned to counter it with a set of bared fangs, thinking it was the masked man from before—but no, this was someone else. Two someones.

The question posed finally registered in his mind and Screech sighed, relaxing his face. Without answering with words he tried to lift himself to his feet and staggered, but did not fall. He glanced from one wolf to the next, licked his lips and said, you aren't gonna eat me too, are you?

That might've been a joke had he not looked so utterly pathetic.

The answer was swift, and then the dark wolf went on to explain his own situation. Screech was exhausted but he did his best to follow along, somewhat amped-up by his own adrenaline. That might've been all that kept him lucid at this point. The offer was a good one — and he would be an actual idiot to pass up the chance to mend somewhere safe. Although he couldn't be sure of either of these wolves (just as they were skeptical of him), the choice was an easy one.

But when he opened his mouth to agree, Constantine cut him off in order to warn him. The boy's ears fanned about his head for a split-second; he didn't have the energy to argue nor the heart to explain his injury. So he just nodded and murmured, Didn't deserve this, didn't do nothin', and then he was quiet for a bit as he gathered his energy. When the boy stood up he staggered and was swiftly aided by the ginger woman, and together the trio headed for the shelter of the forest together.