Bramblepoint they should deliver all my blessings in small brown paper handbags near the porch

The herds had moved on and it'd been several days since he happened across any small game. While Roangeda's turf had not suffered as many of the other territories did, prey was thinning rapidly as Winter continued to creep closer.

It was a need to hunt that drove him from the fen, and he scoured the nearby lands for any sign of what could be a substantial meal for he and his packmates. It did not surprise him to pick up on Praimfaya's fresh scent (there was no rooting that kid to one place for long) as he did so and he chose to follow, figuring hunger might've brought her out prowling as well.

When he found her, the girl was not alone. The mere sight of the black-headed coywolf, unmistakably the one responsible for Drageda's downfall, was enough to raise the coarse guard hairs to stand tall along his dorsal. "You are far from your home," the sterling yearling rumbled as he drew closer, lingering protectively close to the pale Worlida. It bothered him to find her here, so far from the coast where she'd worked tirelessly to claim it all for herself. Perhaps the wolves of Rusalka had finally saw their leader's true colours and cast her out, a sad old crone destined to die alone.

He hoped so. Oh, how he hoped.