Barrow Fields these are the last blues we're ever gonna have.

“Ugh,” she groans, stepping through the snow. In some places of the beach, it doesn’t stick, but she’s traveled too far now inland to avoid it. The sky ahead doesn’t hold a lot of promise to remain clear and she doesn’t know where she’s going any more than she always does. All she wants to do is sit somewhere and complain to someone about how cold it is. Her nose wrinkles back a little and her lips get caught on her two lower canines, keeping them exposed once she’s reset her jaw to make her under-bite a little more obvious.
 
The sound of screech catches her attention and she turns her head, moving through until she sees two large birds going at each other. Immediately, her yellow eyes turn to what they’re fighting over, completely oblivious to the pale wolf dunked down in the snow ahead. For a long moment, she stares at the kill on the ground and the second they step a few feet over in their scuffle, she takes off after it. In an attempt to get close enough to snatch it off the ground, they see the new culprit and immediately go after her. Nox doesn’t get close to the half-eaten hare when claws and beaks and squawks all come at her at once before she has a chance to take off in the other wolf’s direction.