Whitefish River you and me and the devil make three

He headed back north after meeting the red-coated girl in the plains, his path uncertain and meandering. He originally had headed for Redhawk but had been turned around, gotten lost, and felt stuck in the center of the Flatlands with no clear direction. Every wolf he spoke to he felt the need to fight while hunger gnawed at the fringes of his sanity. Self-doubt barred him from joining a pack along with the sting of Rannoch's betrayal reminding him of the risks. So he sought out the only friend he knew.

Unbeknownst to him, someone else was searching for Titmouse, too. Albeit, the girl's own hunt was tinged with a degree of desperation, where Redshank was somewhat more lackadaisical about it. If he found his kinda-sorta-not-really bud, then he guessed that would just be a happy, semi-deliberate coincidence. What the boy really needed was some sense of familiarity, someone he could trust so he could survive the winter.

He had followed a frozen river for hours now, ever increasing exhaustion causing him to stop and rest. Frustration rose as a snarl in his throat, but he quietened he spotted a dark figure loping ahead, nose to the ground, seemingly on the prowl for...something. Thinking she had found the trail of prey, the boy urged his aching legs forwards, ears pricked in interest.