Otter Creek among the chestnut trees of Mamre

On the opposite side of the creek roamed the habitual aggressor. His heavy head was held loosely, bent just slightly from the line of broad shoulders. The pace he kept was slow and deliberate, his appetite staved for the time being by a goat carcass left up in the cliffs. His westward venture was superficial. He knew he would return east soon, finding the further inland he traveled, the warmer it became. The sound of water drew stout ears flickering upward, thick nostrils flaring as he tasted the condensing water on the air. Warbone angled his body and strengthened his lope.

At the creek, he padded away a thin crystal of ice layering the water (which nearly broke the entire stream free of winter's spell), and the wolf began taking large gulps of the refreshingly chilling sustenance. He swallowed thickly, breathing harshly out of his mouth as the cold hit his belly and stung his temples and clung painfully to his teeth. Licking his chops, he went in for several more swallows before the scent of another gave him pause. Ever on The Hunt, Warbone detached himself from his crouched drinking position, and trudged in great splashes across the creek.

Perhaps half a mile down, he found the she-wolf supporting herself against a corpse of trees. She was small and thin; injured, or just perhaps exhausted, and Warbone could not help the feeling of detachment he felt towards it all. Still, maybe out of morbid curiosity, he approached.