Otter Creek among the chestnut trees of Mamre

Warbone watched the scene with such mild fascination that it could have easily been mistaken for severe impassivity instead. But if the wolf were truly disinterested, then one would notice his lack of presence. Warbone did not remain around things that did not interest him.

For the barest of moments the fawn she-wolf became submerged, flapping desperately— and the hunter was inclined to let Natural Selection take its course. When she reemerged with a new finesse for life, paddling fervently until she clawed her way up the icy bank, Warbone decided that her success in the trial gave value to her life. She deserved to live... until proven otherwise. Her frame was reduced to a build made of straw, and the scarecrow was quivering in place, frozen with her head sitting heavier than the rest of her.

He prowled nearer, lacking hesitation in the advantageous moments of her cold-stiff stupor. He sniffed at her first, then gave her a seal of approval— the press of his warm tongue across her forehead, swift and reassuring. "Come," he growled, turning to move (more slowly this time) in the direction of a small grove. It would serve as only a small upgrade from the gnashing chill of the breeze, but it was significantly warmer by comparison.

He was following an age-old instinct to protect and serve; it came as naturally to him as breathing, and rather than wonder whether or not she truly deserved his blind goodwill, he simply imagined that this was the same as caring for his younger sister, a wolf he had never once minded serving. Warbone sat against a strategically chosen tree, where they were shielded on all sides and (mostly) cured of the wind. He looked at her expectantly, waiting silently for her to come curl up before him so that he might curl around her.

"Warmth, and then dinner."