Fairspell Meadow Dust off your boots

Dovev's posture hardly changed, but Macintosh chanced a few steps in the man's direction, enough to put them within earshot of one another. His tail swung easily at his hocks, unconsciously mirroring the sway of the Arctic wolf's when the man called out a question. Macintosh's ears perked heartily, and for a moment he mulled it over. The historian wished he had something more to say than what he did, but that was not the case.

"Unfortunately, no," he answered loudly. "I'm too new here, but I'd say prospects look grim." And indeed they did. The entire wilds as he had experienced them was stripped bare of sustenance for the prey, and even the dumbest of wolves could recognize the danger of that. Macintosh was not the dumbest of wolves and saw the bleak reality for what it was, but his plan was not to remain here anyway. When hunger began to press his gut, Macintosh would return from whence he came.

"Well, unless you can sprout wings and fly," he added as an afterthought when a crow burst from the canopy under which Dovev stood. Birds were not fare for wolves, however; they were too tricky to catch, and too oft could hop away into the sky at a moment's notice.