Bramblepoint point to the hills

It was warm without the cover that would have been provided by foliage. The spring sun beat down against the earth with very little concern for those living upon it. Just beyond the stretch of brambles, there were thick clouds rolling across the sky – dark with expected rain. Sawyer cast his gaze in the direction of the storm clouds and squinted. It would do him well to escape the warmth, and though he knew it was more likely that the rain would be short, he was willing to risk it. The brambles and thistles were all that was left of the ripe fruit country. What would have drawn small prey animals to the safety of the brush had been stripped bare and left with only the vicious bite of the thorns.
 
Pressing himself carefully through the tangle, the golden man watched the clouds as they pressed towards his location. A sharp prick caught him by surprise, drawing blood from underneath his coat. As if in reply, the sky rumbled ominously and a chilled wind ruffled the wolf’s fur. Sawyer did not know how long he could foresee sustaining himself without the assistance of a pack. He had yet to cross the borders of one, though, which was cause for worry. If the famine was as bad as it appeared, there was a chance the packs had moved on in search of prey.
 
Lightning crackled overhead, punctuating Sawyer’s thought with a glaring white flash, and a clap of thunder rolled across the brambles. It was a ghost land, he realized slowly. And the thought of finding means of survival was fading.