Deepwood Weald Against you, a weak defense

Ironically, as the drifter reaches the relative safety of spindly trees, the screaming wind from the coast peters out to a rough breeze. Had his mind been tailored to introspection, Farstep may have huffed his irritation, but he scarcely notices the change in the weather. Instead of thinking about it, he stops just within the shade of the forest and shakes himself violently. It does little to free his coat of grit from the coast, but it makes him feel better. There's a strange weightlessness that seems to accompany shaking oneself just so. The wolf stands tall a moment, surveying the trees with cupped ears and sharp eyes, before punctuating his stillness with a pass of his tongue over his lips as he presses deeper into the fold of lanky trees.

His tail is still behind him as he paces into the weald. If these trees possess branches, they're well out of his line of sight. He doesn't wonder about this, only notes that there's likely an absence of squirrels in this region. There's occasional birdsong, but also the rapid tap of a woodpecker's bill, telling Farstep that whatever flies into this forest is capable of roosting without a horizontal perch. Their voices give him a sense of ease. He equates bird vocals with a lack of imminent danger in his surroundings, so he allows himself a brief rest. He drops to his side on the ground, drops his snout to gnaw at an itchy spot on his forelimb, but his ears are in constant motion. A reminder that his lifestyle does not afford him the luxury of being complacent. That the birds may not recognize a threat on the ground.

Farstep rests, but he is taut and alert all the same.