Iktome Plains There was truth, there was consequence

A high coastal wind sweeps across the scrub land, sending bits of dirt and debris flying into the drifting wolf's face. His eyes narrow against the environment's assault, but it's fruitless; another gust temporarily blinds him as the dry sand whips into a brief dust devil. From here, he cannot see the wide expanse of the ocean but he knows it's close from its stench. The wolf is nothing if not a terrestrial beast, so the first whiff of saltwater sends him southward, away from the coast.

He passes by a clump of grass that extends past the crown of his head, pauses to sniff around at its base, and decides to move on. Barren grass can't offer much protection from the windstorm. He slings his neck low, lining up his scalp with his shoulders and his rigid tail, and plows on through the sand-and-grass mix that makes up the ground here. The wind is at his back now, but it still aggravates him with every gust. It's not unlike sharp nails clawing painfully through his knotted fur, possibly the most uncomfortable wind he's experienced in quite some time.

The wolf coughs against a bit of dust swirling near his nose, a sort of combination between a dry bark and a sneeze. His visibility is cut by the windstorm, but he thinks he can make out a dark silhouette in the distance—a mountain, perhaps, or something totally different. It's impossible to tell, but for want of self-preservation, the male heads in that direction.