Heron Lake Plateau Because a fire was in my head

As the dark, rumbling sky opened up and brought forth an end-of-summer deluge, a whip-thin she-wolf stumbled in the mud and fell short of her quarry.

With a snarl, Saena lurched back to her paws, but the fleet-footed hare was already far beyond her grasp. Slipping, she irately thought to herself. In more ways than one. She turned her head to inspect her flank and found it uninjured, but grimaced at the thick sludge plastered from shoulder to hock. It was unsightly, and while Saena had once been a wolf unafraid to get dirty, who she had become in the fog of her amnesia still remained at least somewhat intact. That wolf detested uncleanliness.

She sat heavily, threw her muzzle over her shoulder, and began dragging her teeth through her muddied coat. Every few scrapes she would spit out the mud, work her jaws as if to rid her tongue of the fetid flavour, lift her head to survey her surroundings, and continue on. All the while, she rumbled under her breath, almost as if to mask the hungry rumble of her belly.