Raven's Watch Mascara runnin’ down her little Bambi eyes

Frost clung to the trees along the slope where he ranged though the shuffling of ravens above had dislodged some of the glittering crystals onto him. Winter was one of the rare times where he was not entirely dark, for both ice and snow would find their way to settle on him. Perhaps it did not help that winter lent to him a thicker coat to facilitate such, but he had little regard for appearance.

He moved steadily towards the cairn he had been putting together, a doe’s leg bone clutched between his jaws so tightly that it would have cracked had it been any older, chewed, or weathered. The ravens were quiet, used to his presence as they were some of the longer standing among them. They had been littering the site with various trinkets—bones, stones, sticks, whatever caught their fancy to share—and he found this no different as he reached the point he had chosen.

Setting the bone aside with the others, he surveyed the skyward jut of stone off to his side before letting his gaze rest to the valley and ravines below. His skin prickled with uncertainty at all that laid before him, just as unknowing uncomfortable as Meadow was with things. It came together, surely, but now winter was upon them. A poor mockery of a stalemate; though he was comfortable with traveling and scavenging in this weather, he had no desire to try and corral and herd a group.

So it was there that they would have to remain and the respite could have spat in his face.