Whitefish River the raven unfolded its wings and turned daylight into dark

Tall and draped in snow, the mountains were something his eye could always appreciate. His gaze crept up the densely forested bases, across boulder strewn faces and along narrow draws, to where the earth ended and the sky began. Though he had been chiseled out of the rugged northern slopes, Skwol had no desire to see them beneath his feet any more — a bad fall as a pup had secured that in his mind long ago, and so he took a route around them.

He meandered as water did - in a seemingly aimless and winding way, taking the easiest passage offered. His status as a lone wolf and the season at paw bade him to be mindful of energies spent. Though aware of the dangers of his situation he was not uneasy about it. The blood of travellers was his. He had been taught to survive and he was healthy. His nonchalant way of moving, of simply being, betrayed his confidence. He looked to be a wolf roaming lands well known rather than a stranger to new places.

The spring may find him slimmer and wanting but it would not find him a corpse.

Thirst tickled his throat. Skwol snatched a bite of snow, chewing it messily before going for another. His manner of snow-eating was indisputably playful; with his nose dipping deep into the drifts and his head shaking and paws frolicking as he chomped. This he knew was not the best way to drink and soon he was scratching along the edge of the river, heavy paws and thick blunt nails searching for weaknesses in the ice.