Bramblepoint growing strong

She didn't answer him, though he knew that his words did not fall on deaf ears. So he followed her when her countenance morphed to revulsion, and disgust wasn't far behind on his face. It was a putrid stench, worse than the rotting apples beneath their feet in the muck. If he had to guess, the very scent in this case was vomit and if that were any indicator, the beast was certainly ill.

Onward they went from there, to the raspberries. These he was more familiar with and hastened to, only to feel the thorns pull at his hairs as he plucked a berry loose. It was sour, far more tart than it would have been at the height of summer. He made a face as he swallowed it, but this too wasn't outside the realm of falling into the inedible range. Another option, one they could pick clean quickly.

The ravens in the eaves above raised a clamor at this—how dare the wolves infringe on their food. But even they would not make a move against them, for they knew wolves had very sharp, precise teeth. A bird was just as tasty as the morsels they stole from the overripe shrubs. Dirge paid them no mind and moved ahead then, following the path the moose had forged.

"It keeps going this way, it would seem," and he noted that the foul air did not linger as it had. "Probably headed for the river north if I had to guess." Why stop for the minor water sources when he could go for the biggest of them? It was clear that the creature did not think ahead well, but they would ensure it was long gone.