Little Goat Mountain There's another side

At the mention of describing her, he closed his eyes and grinned. One may think he was relishing the thought of a loved one. But no. Not him.
He was thinking of her perfect she would look sprawled out before him, fur staining, waves lapping against the wisps of her form. His voice was rasping, trying to prevent himself from slipping into a state.
"She is as white as fresh snow with eyes of silver." He opened his own eyes, becoming more serious, "She has scars over her eyes, very distinguishable. You couldn't mistake her for anyone else."
Well, unless she had a doppelganger out there.

He sighed softly, coming to the realisation he wouldn't find his prey any time soon. Not unless he searched far and wide. He stepped forward, "Huntington,"  he repeated, savoring the syllables so he could remember them with perfect clarity, "where are you traveling to?"
He had to know, for the sake of finding her again easier so he could stand a chance of finding her.