Firefly Glen a minty fresh death breath

The weather was abysmal, and all seemed quiet, but the dark Ostrega roved anyway--too restless, too stricken, and too desperately in need of somewhere to send his energies. With so much loss so terribly close to the heart, it was unlike anything else. But Antares found if he stuck to the trees, there he had a hint of a buffer. Thankfully, his habits already kept him close to the woodlots and he could keep pushing forward.

It placed him near enough when the howl went up--the call that gave him a hint of a startle, honestly, as it cut through the wind and ice into his silent sulking. Who else would be out here? Worse, he didn't recognize the voice.  Like he was feeling up to greeting strangers any. Nevertheless, his ears flicked up only long enough to consider its meaning before he returned to a long, low slink of a gait. He at least had a heading to go on, so he set out in search of the source to answer.

With enough time, he was able to close in, and appeared from the nearby cover to the stranger. You called, right? he said, having to force his voice above his normal as the wind bit him back. This is Firefly Glen. What are you doing out here? he asked, even more to the point than normal, though he had good sense that anyone sane could see why.