The Floodlands I feel you in my arms, but you're hardly even with me

He listened. The hum of the fridged winter wind swept through the leafless trees. Aklark looked and saw them bend, bowing their branches in deferece before the wind's might. The trees did as nature bid, and so did he. Nature compelled him to hunt. His senses were honed in like a perfectly calibrated machine, processing all he could from the clues he was provided. The scent of the herd was faint, distant. Yet, the visual cues of their presence remained. Hoof-print trails and well trodden grass guided his path forward.

It was then that he heard the step of a wolf through the murk behind him. So engrossed in the trail, Aklark's attention did not turn. Yet when she came beside him, he could tell her identity from touch -- from smell. Silaluk. He regarded her with a throaty chuff in greeting and brushed back along her flank. Her presence was appreciated, especially now as the trail of hoof-prints seemed to taper off into non-existance as the ground became more compact.