Barrow Fields Let's be reckless, unaffected.

Down on the frigid beach three days ago, Coast had sacked a plump seal. He would spend the next two days lounging about his kill like a fat manatee, keeping away all company but the gulls, and sleeping to their screeching anthems beset by the thunderous base produced by the incorrigible waves crashing nearby. Once he and the birds had picked the corpse clean, he left the mariner bones to be lost to the sand and began to move inland in order to find proper shelter for the time being.

He seemed only to find more flatland the longer he walked; irritation beginning to creep into his consciousness before he discovered the recent trail of another wolf. Eagerly, the pallid harrier angled himself after the scent, intent on expending some pent-up energy in his well-fed mood.

Upon spying his target, he decided not to antagonize her if he could help it. An injury suffered by this one could cripple him, and as a lone wolf in his prime, he knew the last thing he wanted was to mess up his pretty smug or his ability to survive and provide. What self-respecting she-wolf would want him and his stock then? He held back many wolflengths, tail swaying and ears pressed forward with interest as he made to announce his presence with a low, water-testing chuff.