Flycatcher Downs Thunder only happens when it's raining

astara nosed warily, drinking in the scent of galena with greedy attention. foremost, she noted a lack of allegiance to this pewter she-beast -- the scent of the wilderness hung damp and persistent to her wild tresses. astara noted the lingering scent of a kill, of another wolf -- but her nose was not so keen to detect the faint traces of galena's past life.

in astara, galena would notice her pelt rife with the scent of conifers (bearclaw) and merrick. she might note the faint aroma of packmates, of her own scuffles, and the faded blood of a coyote she and fields had tracked and killed the day before. she might notice astara's pelt bore a few cuts, one particularly ugly and crusted along her nape.

her inspection complete, astara pulled away from the steel warrior and chuffed acceptingly of the other's presence. what had brought astara to the downs originally was the faded musk of another coyote band -- she pointedly nosed along the snowmelt where the scent still pervaded, her gaze landing inquiringly on galena in invitation.