Altar of Twilight A shooting star

Crowfeather followed in the place he had made, right beside Germanicus. The dark shape would move only a few paces, searching for more signs of the wild pigs.

Once the silver guardian had moved ahead, the dark wolf caught sight of the hooves that had imprinted in the dirt. The scent grew thicker, more powerful. Crowfeather could feel his eyes watering at the pungent odor that the boar carried on them. He squinted with a crinkled snout.

They smell so bad, the younger hunter whispered. Do they taste better than they smell? His voice was pleading and soft. If they tasted as poor as their odor, Crowfeather might have encountered his first regret of their journey.