Whitebark Stream every hurricane gets its name from a girl like this

The blow of the wind is in her favor, bring a scent of another to her nose just as she sees the wolf. He’s dark in color with peppering of white and he’s lost in his own thoughts as he follows something—Thuringwethil looks closer to see the tracks beneath his nose—and comes to a stop several yards down the stream. The tracks disappeared and she looks on the other side of the stream where they do not pick up and she hums to herself in consideration where they could have gone.  She narrows her eyes and begins to travel down the length of the bank.

Thuringwethil is hesitant in her approach—the last male she came upon tried to kill her—but there’s at least the frozen stream between them but it isn’t enough to guarantee her safety.  The woman chuffs quietly and adjusts her posture to something relatively neutral. Other scents that don’t seem to belong to him waft in her direction and she can only assume he belongs to another. She’d been here several days without meeting another pack wolf but it’s a matter of time, according to Gyda, with a packs to their southern borders.