Blackfoot Forest i'd rather drowned in misery than gone to new south wales

As the clouds loosened and expelled what would be the last of the snowfall for a few days, Duskhall picked up in the dark and began to make way. He was glad for the temporary deferment; storms impeded his progress, and more than anything the wolf detested any stagnancy. The night -- which had also thought to contribute a thwarting factor to his advance -- obscured any long-distant view, but his nose declared that a woodland prevailed up ahead. A place likely to yield a meal come morning.

By the time daylight had filled every bare crevice it could reach, the nightwolf still had not eaten. Not that hunger was his most pressing issue, he realized after a time. His tongue grew drier, eventually leading to a switch in tactics; where instead of keeping eye and ear out for the movement of prey, he instead began listening for the telltale activity of water.

In following the faint trickling of a stream too fast-flowing to freeze, he found instead the figure of a blanched vagabond ahead of him. The male hung back, ears a-twitch and nose quivering. The stranger carried with him the sheathing scent of a recent companion, making Duskhall cautious to approach with his clear disadvantage. Still, he only needed water at the moment, dictating him to proceed slowly and make a quick noise of acknowledgement as he kept a smart eye out for the other male yet unseen.