Arrow Lake windlied

the thin trail of ego's scent was beginning to ebb; mahler's lips set in a cold, grim line, but onward he searched. here were the scents of the many children in diaspora, and it was their presences that engendered such a desperation in mahler. the number of cubs was equal to the grown wolves of the pack, and with winter looming too closely even with a season and a half between, the general was beginning to fret.
he drew up @River's trail, and followed it into the weald, heart heavy as he knew the little one was rife with grief, bereft as they all were.