Sequoia Coast Need some air

“Well, that sucks,” Ptarmigan sulked as soon as Thistle revealed that she hadn't, in fact, reached the Caribbean. Not that a wolf could thrive in that sort of environment. The loner had clung to some hope that she might yet discover a place untouched by the frigid kiss of winter, but so far, it was a dying hope.

“I hope you don't mind, but I should be going soon,” she said, giving nothing more than a mm and a nod in response to the observed savagery of the north. She wouldn't call Shingle Steppe savage by any means, but it was becoming more evident that the north stood for something a little more wild to Thistle than her notion of it. The dismissal, albeit sudden, was accompanied by the slightest apologetic wiggling of her hips as though to silently say, sorry but I really have to pee. She was hungry, too, and her legs smarted more than she cared to mention from her tumble.