Deepwood Weald you will never be satisfied

The soft trickle of water is the only indication of the stream that she happens across. It is barely wider than she is tall, shallow, and clogged with all manner of detrius. But she manages to find an area suitable to dip her tongue into and does just that, ignorant of the stranger approaching her from the south. Akantha takes some measure of comfort from the water that quenches her throat, and revitalizes her admittedly low reserves. She isn't used to feeling so hollow; so without. 

A rustle of parting ferns, followed promptly by a soft chuff, heralded the arrival of another. She cursed silently at being so wholly unaware of his approach. Akantha cast her gaze sideways to locate the wolf, and her heart skipped. A frost-collared male—young, but not infantile, and clearly confident in his abilities (lest he would not have approached her, a ghastly thorn witch, so boldly). Her ears swivel forward while she lifts her muzzle from the water, and points it his direction and settles her gaze on his own. 

Her mouth twists into a frown, and her tail twitched with apprehension. "I have no food if that's what you seek." she said. He looked healthy, but she wasn't a trusting creature by nature.