Barrow Fields the streets all built on ancient bones

@Reighn

caw weaves through the fields like a ghost.
 
the sun is slowly sinking behind the horizon, but there is no place yet to sleep. he still itches at the very idea of digging a den into the ground, even though there are great mounds of earth piled all around him – he is a wolf, and the dirt is for worms, for beasts not worthy of his time or his teeth. there is no fallen tree yet, no dead to claw apart and make a home inside. crows are scavengers, and so is caw, but today has been devoid of luck.
 
avis circles above him, and every so often, her harsh croaking caw makes him straighten, glance around, ears twitching this way and that as he sniffs curiously at the base of the mounds. the air is thick with the smell of the sea, with the faint overlay of oncoming storms, but though caw does not necessarily enjoy being wet he does enjoy the thunder, and he is in no hurry.
 
the plain is quiet but for the whistle of wind and the distant, barely-there crash of waves on shore. how ever far away he is, he does not much care – the sea, like the dirt, is not his, is not a wolf’s.
 
it is still a new place. this is not his home, and there is enough curiosity behind the ever-present veil of nothing that he removes his muzzle and replaces it with his claws. after a few scoops, scattering dirt every which way, there is still not much to see. but there is nothing about him either, nothing but endless grass and patchy snow, so he keeps digging. maybe if he goes far enough, this trip will have been worth something but trees and quiet.
 
avis lands atop the mound in a flutter of wings and watches him; he glances up to see her head cocked to the side, but there is no real bemusement in her eyes. they have done odder things before, together.