Lake Rodney Límni

It was nearly nightfall when Arsenio had reached the base of the mountain and found a path alongside the river. The misthofóros trotted alongside it, reveling in the ache of his tired frame and the slope of his back. There would be fish ahead and he was capable enough of catching two or three of them to fill his belly.

On his descent, Arsenio had noted the stretch of land between the mountain range he scaled and the one in the distance. There were miles between them and likely many territories that had been claimed by wolves. It had not been until he had reached the river that the Greek had plucked the sharp fragrance of claimed terrain. The wetland to the south had been his guess, but Arsenio had not stopped.

Plodding into the water, the misthofóros soaked his large paws. The ice blue of his gaze searched the surrounding terrain for signs of any who would approach.