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

For what felt like hours, the pair traveled in pursuit of a ghost in absolute silence. Aklark wasn't necissarly the talkative type, nor were any of the wolves of Tartok he had found. Like the rest of his newfound kin, he preferred to let his body language speak for him. Idle conversation, it was beneath him: unnatural. In fact, while off-putting to some, the silence felt comfortable and it allowed Aklark to devote his all of his senses in full to the task at hand. No petty distractions.

After a long bout of following a fading trail of scent, Aklark found exactly what he was looking for. A pile of scat had been dropped a few meters away. Aklark honed in on it like a missle. There was much to be learned from a pile like this: timing, placement, the health of the herd, even the extent of their diet. Aklark studied it like a scholar studies a text-book as he placed his nose close and inhaled. He could see that the individual pelets had cracked in the winter sun and had dried. A fair amount of time had passed.

But, now -- he felt certain of his trajectory. He turned to his superior to share the information he had garnered. "Three days. Four, maybe," he said, attempting to account for both the movement of the herd, their trajectory, and the ability to mobilize the rest of Silaluk's wolves. He then stepped away, making room for his leader to see, smell, and draw conclusions from the pile.