Blacktail Deer Plateau it's just a triptych in decay

The shadow reminded him of a summer storm—deep, foreboding, ugly dark clouds lined with silver—and he moved like one, too. Robespierre had entered the plateau in search of game after a too-long sleep nearby and was pleased to find that it was snowing, now, the flakes blending neatly with his alabaster pelt before melting into the thick fur.

Like home. Or it would be close, soon enough.

But he'd seen the man from a way back and followed, trotting nimbly over the open ground before plunging into the shade of the evergreens. Before he'd take him unawares, Robespierre barked a greeting, tail swishing behind him, but not flagged so high as to mark him as a threat.

Monsieur! he called out, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. Savez-vous où sont la glace?

He was unsure why he spoke solely in les langue des mères. Exceptionalism, perhaps, and the yearning to make a friend of one's kind.