Bramblepoint two hundred miles through the deepest dark forest

Sunlight broke through a heavy cloud bank, piercing his eyes and causing them to burn. For the better part of the day, the world had been cast in shades of gray and brown, and the weather unfavorable. The coyote had thinly needled his way into the wood for cover, though the bare canopies did little to shelter him from the sting of the wind and snow. He had bedded down in underbrush, though rest had done little to make the weather relent. So he had stirred and plucked himself back up again, venturing out to the edge of the woodland only now to have the sun sting his eyes to match the bitterness of the day.

Rickshaw chuffed to himself as he surveyed the landscape beyond the cover of the sparse wood, neither pleased nor grateful for his evasion of the weather's worst. The skies beyond showed promise of clouds to return soon, but his gaze held steadfast to the underbrush beyond as he ventured along the edge of the forest. In such a profoundly new place, he felt necessity to keep moving in spite of the weather; predators and other scavengers were abound, their tracks evident in the mud he had seen, their calls in the quiet nights crystal clear. Though he had not eaten in a day or two, hunger did not gnaw at his sides yet he felt the urge to scavenge all the same. His intent came naturally, for there were no doubt morsels to be found left behind, if not cast down from the birds in their lofty roosts.

A spring entered his step and he bounced forward; a mouse had been started in his trek through the decay of formerly dry grass, now damp from the snow. This would do, his body proclaimed as he snatched it up and made a go of swallowing it whole, only to hear the squeak of his quarry as he crushed it between his teeth. Down his gullet it went, and off the rangy canine continued as though he had no care in the world.

hrsta — lime kiln