Arrow Lake mourntart

already night fell, or at least, it seemed to with a hammer's strike to thorn; he had been trailing his own game up until that point, and had found night's inconvenient descent meant that his game (a hare) had sunk deep underground. with snow falling at the rate it was accumulating, he would have better luck bedding for the night and starting fresh in the morning.

resigned to another lean night of sleep with no meal, thorn had dug a small pit for himself when a predator's shadow passed through. feeling an instinctive need to suss out this stranger, if only to smell him, thorn nosed through the tangle of snow-laden boughs towards the warhound, his posture saying "hey! who are you?" while his eyes burned with curiosity.