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

Silaluk's nostrils took in the scent of the fecal matter left behind, moving toward it even as Aklark did. As he examined it she did so with him, not at all mindful of personal space—a construct that sometimes she regarded, sometimes she did not—in the moment, their priority was all she considered. Her ear pivoted toward him as he spoke, and Silaluk found herself agreeing with him (unsurprisingly, as he had always been a good tracker himself). She lifted her head to inspect Aklark himself, her cool eyes brushing over his rugged, strong features. Then her nose lifted toward the sky, and after observing the oncoming, mild weather, Silaluk spoke in her low, gruff voice, rough with disuse.

We will move out at nightfall, she decided. It would give the wolves some time to rest from their long travels to the Wilds, and the herd minimum time to move onward. They were fleet of foot and used to strict schedules, and Silaluk did not think it wise to risk any of them being fatigued before moving on. This seemed the best course for them all.