Hideaway Strath The temperature of the air on the bow of the Kaleetan.

Towhee had made quite the point in avoiding him—or so he assumed. Had the roguish Ostrega been easily offended, he supposed the colder shoulder would have worked. As it was, the golden wolf took little things such as this with a grain of salt—somehow, after partaking and witnessing what he had in the willow forest on the mountains, certain things in life were hard to take too seriously.

His pale golden pelt gleamed hauntingly in the fog—his eyes narrowed as he finally found her after finally taking the initiative to hunt her down. Their relationship was merely one of acquaintance, but he had always appreciated her down to earth approach in life.

Though now, the white-arrowed wolf watched in open curiosity as he noted her dark frame running about the fog—back and forth. He bristled for a moment, waiting to catch glimpse of an assailant he had not yet smelt or seen, but there was nothing.

Finally, he interrupted the silence, announcing his presence by loping forward, hoing she looked his way before offering a dry: “Are you trying to outrun your tail, Thundersmash?”