Deepwood Weald maybe september, the year you believed in me

there were more than one scents to the weald; arcturus remained alert, lest one of those scents be the party of derelicts hydra had warned him of.

throughout the gloom the panther prowled, pausing here and there as a scent became more and more prevalent. he heard the tread of a wolf behind him and whipped around, his fur lifted defensively in case it was one of the very rogues he was instructed to stay away from.

the figure that waded past parting mist was not what arcturus would have called a derelict. rough, sure -- but arcturus did not often judge wolves by the state of their fur. he apprised her with a careful look but did not advance. "who are you?" his voice was gruff, but not without an inflection of curiosity.

no response.

arcturus wondered if he had been seeing things; the mist bucked and rolled in response, but ultimately, the ostrega seemed alone.

perturbed, he pressed on.