Broken Antler Fen one of the drunks

Another day drew him towards the fen, or at least the area he thought had housed Primafaya's Roangeda. The hows and whys of its dissolution he had not teased or pried otherwise, though it did not take much of a wonder as to why. It had little to do with her experience or lack thereof he thought, but more with winter having dug in and the prey yet to dig out. Winter was not a season of weak-willed and ailing souls and this one was far more urgent in how it pressed into them.

He did not dare rifle through what remained of Moonspear's caches, nor consider what would happen should that finite source empty entirely. But they were a smart enough sort to ration themselves, to hunt at every opportunity, and that had become the backdrop to what drove him to rifle through the remains of another. Perhaps Roangeda had been blessed with a skilled hunter or three, and perhaps somewhere some tasty morsel had been interred and left waiting.

A coyote was not among the sort of things he anticipated finding, let alone one alive.

Cracking ice drew him in until he had spied him from the cover of wood. It was there that he watched such a display and how quickly, expertly the coyote made work of the ice. Perhaps wise of him to drink from such a place than one needing less work. Less traffic at the very least than the average babbling brook... and he watched every subtle movement, every gentle twist and turn of ears for listening.

Not an easy quarry, not that he thought he could accomplish such a thing. Certainly not alone. Coyotes were faster, lighter, better equip to evade and scavenge as they pleased. But he could watch him from a vantage point, and ponder possibilities therein. Dirge hunkered down instead; if he could not hunt him then perhaps he would scavenge instead.