Lost Creek Hollow crows remember human faces

luck. in that statement, though, terance wasn't wrong. the chances of him happening across trea—arbiter's scent on his trek out of the wilds he's just so very recently stepped within had been a mere sliver of chance ...and yet he'd caught it. a phantom whiff that he almost hadn't followed. so easily, law could've just brushed it away as nostalgia; and yet that age old question he appeared to live his life by lit like a neon sign in his mind's eye: what do you have to lose if you're wrong? but ...did law believe in luck? maybe not. he didn't believe in fate. he made his own fate. life's full of surprises. law rumbles simply, noncommittally.

a grim glimpse around is given as law's lips press into a terse line. looks like the apocalypse is happening around here, spoke with a slight curl of his lips to be a ill-timed joke. i noticed the lack of herds. law says more seriously. it was one of the reasons he'd been on his way out of the door in the first place. any good hunter knew that while wolves could survive on small game they wouldn't be at their peak efficiency ...and law spent too much time being trained to always be at his peak efficiency for self and pack.

probably. another noncommittal response, but law was no naturalist and had no idea how to read the earth, stars and weather to predict whether the apocalypse was coming to it's end or not. still, terance seemed optimistic about it. he didn't doubt that once things calmed down that the herds of animals that didn't migrate for the winter would return — like wolves they had generational territories and tended to be creatures of habit. how's the hunting? any stragglers? what about the small game? because surely not every herd/large game animal could've made it out before all hell broke loose.