Bramblepoint That girl has tangled with the wrong man

@Ensio

Though far too proud to admit it, Qeorvik would spend quite a bit of time looking for his companion, Halldóra. A large part of him hated her for abandoning him, but another part of him missed her. There was even a tiny, tiny part that worried she had not left of her own free will – because who in their right mind would voluntarily ditch him? – but it wouldn’t be the first time if it turned out she had.

Thankfully, the cold season invigorated him to stay on the move and keeping his belly full took up most of his attention. It was a good distraction.

The silverlaced boy entered the bramblewoods with the scent of a stoat underfoot. The sky was clear this day but dramatically frigid, making it almost painful to stop for any length of time. Despite this, his thick coat kept him warm, and the thought of a fresh meal kept his spirits up. Not even the bare and thorny bushes that kept snagging at his fur could bring him down.

Jumping in with permission! 
Tagging Bane for reference.

Slumped and moping, the mountain woman lumbered along. @Banesteppe had left her company for whatever reason, and she hadn't been too fond of it. His presence gave her strength and provided promise to her growing vision. But without him, her search would have to continue on without him until he returned to her.

After a recent now, Maven now sported a rather silky looking fox pelt. A thick film of snow now covered it, but it kept her own skin warm and free of dampness. The stains along her face have slowly become worn. Soon, they will be replaced. But not yet. Only when it had entirely vanished.

Though unsure of what she looked for, on and on she trekked, partially blind to her surroundings. She hadn't the mind for it on this day.

The lone Duskfire, the very last of his blood line, pressed onwards. Largely ignoring the scent markers of any nearby packs. He was not ready to join one again. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be. Was it worth the risk of being stung by abandonment yet again?

The bitter cold of winter proved only a slight annoyance. Of northern heritage, he was made to withstand such unforgiving temperatures. Well out of his pup phase, his adult winter coat had grown in thick and dense.
He had spent the better part of the day scavenging. Searching for what he could find. Anything edible would do. His reward for the hours of searching was a putrid, rotting severed head of a stag. One that had been too weak or sick to survive the season.

Watchful, he picked his way through this dreary place to try and find a place to eat in peace. Luck wasn't on his side.

Of the two other wolves who traveled in this area, Qeorvik could only sense one in the immediate vicinity, if only because this one toted something worth his time. The scent of rotting meat drew him in, and from afar he saw a large figure – larger than himself! – carrying the antlered head of a deer.

Sizing up the silver-and-blacksmoke wolf, he figured intimidation would not work on such a beast. Best to try another approach. Úlfur! he called, approaching in a cavalier trot. Ef þú deilir þessu höfði með mér, mun ég veiða með þér fyrir betri máltíð. Pausing, he gave an inquisitive tip of his skull in wait for a response.