Totoka River the sky and the sand and the sea

Hunger; oh yes, he knew hunger. A wolf wasted away on hunger. Slowly. Painfully. Until the delirious body was spent of all its strength and cunning, and there was nothing left but an empty husk of what used to be. The reality was always far crueler than the stories. He grunted.

His gaze tracked to the indicated rocks, then he eyed the turbid waters upstream where a chaser might pursue the fish. He nodded once, sharply. Hunting put him in good spirits. "Good," he affirmed, dark eyes and dark mouth smiling. "I'll go. Don't miss." And without waiting for Corvo to agree - if he disagreed, he'd have to shout at him - Skífa slunk away like a high strung dog and prowled upriver, where he slid long legs into the biting cold river before he could foster any doubts. Though the effect was dampened by his thick winter coat, the icy north water was blisteringly frigid; he sucked in his breath and grit his teeth. 

Before he waded any further and any deeper in, he glanced downriver toward the arch of rocks, impatiently scanning where Corvo should be waiting.