Deepwood Weald Against you, a weak defense

Solitude is ever Farstep's bosom buddy and for now, it seems he is alone with it. The relative silence of the wood presses in on him like a familiar blanket, and for just a moment he relaxes completely. The droop of his ears toward his skull tell a tale of exhaustion and he takes the opportunity to place his snout across his forelimbs, curling his body tighter around himself to ward off the chill of the coastal wind. It's warm here compared to inland, he knows from experience, but nevertheless the bite of winter chases every breath off the sea.

How long he dozes, he doesn't know, but all too soon he's snapped awake by the errant drift of a fresh scent on the air. It's faint and transient, but he catches it just long enough to know that resting time is over. The drifter is on his feet instantly, the hair along his back rippling with uncertainty and fear. The scent of another wolf is always a fearsome thing. One can never be too careful; Farstep knows too well the danger of encountering a more desperate loner, as well as the danger of running across a territorial pack wolf.

He heads deeper into the woods, hoping to escape notice, but his attention is flagging and he doesn't notice Mees' silhouette among the trees at first. The wind pulls the scent away from him now, so when he finds himself face-to-face with the black-haired wolf, he is wholly unprepared. Shock lances his heart and he freezes in place, too startled to react immediately.