Ouroboros Spine I am that is

This man of unyielding gall was dying. Goldhawk had come from a great seaside pack with elite warriors at its heart, and he had thought he'd found the same in Donnelaith. For this reason he had pledged his loyalty to the popular group, which in turn had pencilled in his acceptance on the condition that they found room for him (they hadn't yet), and so he had lingered along the cold shore in faithful wait. This had been a dangerous move. For while the cave he'd picked to camp out in had been warm and close to frequent schools of tasty fishes, it had also been prone to dampness, and the seabreeze was prone to chilliness. These two factors combined had left Goldhawk in a sorry state. He had become too cold to shake his coat out properly. And then too cold to fish.

Hypothermia would kill him before starvation did, and as he walked — slow and painful — the coldness of the night grew specks of frost upon his beautiful golden fur. The ranger was finally headed inland. He'd realised that fabricated loyalty and the wish for a pack as familiar as Donnelaith was not worth dying for — but... fool that I am (he muttered hoarsely) ... it seemed it might be too late. He collapsed near a rocky outcrop. His shivers did not cease and his breathing was shallow. How bally wretched that this is the end, wot, he whispered. Where's my g-gloriously honourable fall.