Heron Lake Plateau Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

Quixote just didn't seem nearly worked up enough about these potential catastrophes for his son's taste. How could the alpha just be so, so calm, when Owen was literally talking about life and death and potential cannibalism here. Gosh! But what if they don't come back, he muttered unhappily about the birds, but mostly to himself. Could a pup really survive on just deer forever, if worst came to worst?

He was also trying to imagine hunting deer visually if they only got almost-mostly-not-quite-all-the-way-buried. Just how much of a deer could one see; how much of the hooved beasties could one go off of? What if, say, only the very tippy-tops of their ears or antlers or something remained visible? Would that really be enough to hunt them by? Owen knew all too well how little you could trust even the most innocent-looking set of antlers after all, and besides, they'd probably just look like branches or something poking up out of the snow from a distance. And to compound this concern, Owen was already noticing how the bigger flakes stung and numbed his nose as they were falling... How easy is it to smell everything once it's covered in snow? Or mostly if not all hidden? he fretted aloud as he tripped hastily along in Quixote's wake. How Quixote could compare this snow stuff to mere mud Owen surely didn't know. This cold white fluffy crap didn't seem anything at all like any mud Owen had ever seen. His father was obviously taking all this far, far too lightly.

The stuff about the rodents and things was kinda reassuring though, except... But if the deer don't get quite buried doesn't that mean the littler prey must get buried in it several times over?! The snow might swallow up all of them before any wolves can get there if it keeps falling and falling! Whaddaya do then!?! Owen's disproportionately large feet were slipping and stumbling, also slightly numbed and bewildered by the new experience of this snow stuff, but mostly Owen just had bigger things to worry about than where his toes were landing. Especially since Dad didn't seem worried enough, so obviously the son needed to make sure he was worrying enough for the both of them, and thinking of all the things Quixote seemed to be missing about this freaking snow stuff. Thus it was pretty inevitable that Owen at last caught his paw on a protruding root and went tumbling facefirst into the fresh coat of snow, bruising his nose on the frozen ground glittering mere millimeters beneath the snowdust. He flailed immediately upright with a yelp, his tail tucking itself tight against his hindquarters. An' what if it's trying to bury and eat me so I can't compete with it! he squeaked, and bolted up ahead of his father toward the presumable safety of his mother and sisters. Though, well, sisters really weren't exactly safe it was true, but even their prankish and needle-toothed companionship surely had to be preferable to this monstrous turn of weather. Hey PhoebeVasaKite guesswhat you'll never guess what dad's been saying about this snowstuff!! he yelled in forewarning, not seeing any of them quite yet but hoping nonetheless they might be in earshot of his shrill young voice. Obviously he was going to oh-so-helpfully pass on nothing but the unvarnished truth of everything Quixote had just told him, here... yuh huh.