The Floodlands With a melody from the mourning band

He saw her first -- a pale beacon on a blackened backdrop -- before anything else, and he noted what he could about the wolf as his pace quickened to an unabashed trot against sopping earth in an effort to meet them quickly. The wind was not in his favor, so he knew nothing of the wolf's gender or age as the distance fell away from them, but he could plainly see that she was a large and sturdy creature; a wolf bred of the mountains if he'd ever seen one. She could have been from the Blacksea Mountain itself, but he didn't like the odds of meeting another wolf from his homelands in the same month, so rejected it immediately as a possibility.

The male's pace slowed only when he had come within several wolflengths of her, and he hung back with his tail raised and waving expectantly. There was no threat in his posturing but there was promise for something more, something wild, as his tongue lolled out and he beckoned her wordlessly to receive her; eager to find out more.