Emberwood apocalypse always chooses the worst time to come.

Parted with the companion the shaded woods had delivered to him, he forged southward towards the mountains and the forest before it.

He blended well enough here surrounded by eyemarked aspen in variegated shades of summergreen.  The wind was loud and rather cold as the not-yet-here rain sent the afternoon into a steady decline; it tousled the long, wiry fur collected between his shoulders and rustled the collection of leaves overhead.   From somewhere in the distance rings the hoarse rattle of crowcall.

The sky rolls behind him and he turns to find a shroud of rain approaching, and he finds shelter beneath a conveniently-shaped outcropping before the worst of it hits.