Deepwood Weald even the heather's crimson red

Just like that, he was homeless once again. What was left of the dwindling Ironsea pack had scattered to the winds when a bear saw fit to breach the borders seemingly intent on staking out a claim there for itself. Redshank hadn't been particularly keen on becoming a meal, so he too fled. His alliance to the band of pirates and their auburn-haired leader was shaky at best, and so the boy did not return afterwards, having a sneaking suspicion that the Bay was no longer a home to any save for a particularly savage-looking bear.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed, if only because winter would be upon them in a few short weeks, and the boy was not the greatest of hunters. Nor was he the sort to have any he could call friends. He had no choice but to simply resign to suffering through another season by the skin of his teeth.

The morning was early, and Redshank tread through a woodland draped in heavy fog which obscured his view. His wandering was aimless, mind on autopilot, his thousand yard stare set straight ahead. Though, his robotic gait suddenly came to a halt when his paw became ensnared by a stray root. It had caught him off guard, and the boy lurched forward, falling ungracefully onto his chest with a loud thump. He did not rise afterwards, instead simply huffing in defeat and staring ahead with a look of irritation.