Swiftcurrent Creek Nobody, literally nobody

HOLY BALLS! yelled a disembodied voice into the snowstorm.

That voice belonged to one Terwillegar, a simple grey wolf with simple desires: find food, find shelter, sleep like the dead, then rinse and repeat. She liked when her days followed a predictable routine, and freak whiteouts were neither predictable nor routine.

She fought through the blustering wind and mounting snow, keeping her head down to futilely shield her stinging eyes. Exactly nothing about this situation was favourable. If there was any prey to be had, Terwillegar didn't have a hope in hell of finding it; scent trails were quickly covered up, making them too dull and faint to follow. If there was adequate shelter, she couldn't see it and would need to blindly stumble right into it.

She stumbled, all right, but it wasn't into some hidden shelter. FUCKBALLS, she screeched as a misstep sent her right down into Swiftcurrent Creek with a splash. The cold cut to her marrow in an instant.

Someone from UG maybe?