Fox's Glade wendigo

The still of the dale was soothing. The isolated territory abated much of his skittish state into a jittering breath that fell from his lips in quiet huffs. Small plumes rose from his nostrils and drifted slackly until they ebbed into the darkness. Tadec was not as fearful there, for the scent of fox was stronger than that of the wolf, and a small stream crept over dark grey stones. The coywolf paused and bent his neck to drink, savoring the way the gelid water sated his parched state.

A crow sounded overhead, cackling wickedly against the wind. Tadec's pointed muzzle was lifted to spy on the ominous symbol before it shuddered against the air and took flight with the catch of its pitch feathers. The thief ran his tongue against the dark hairs of his muzzle to collect remaining droplets before he picked his way across the small stream and continued on the other side.