Redsand Canyon You've only known the ones who leave at dawn

The journey from the mesa to the canyon had taken him more than a week, possibly two. By the time his dark paws had carried him to the edge of Mereo, he had been worn thin and wispy. The jutting of his ribs was an indication that he had not eaten much – a few measly fish to keep him going. There had not been much that he could manage to catch on his own. At his rear was a scarred ankle, rubbed down past the flesh and fur to the muscle beneath. At least it had stopped bleeding.

Crowfeather gazed at the canyon, finding that his memory was easily filled with all the things that had left it. He had made the choice to lie and venture to the Saints. It had been his fault that he had been grievously injured. Nervousness quaked him where he stood. The scents upon their borders did not carry the same aroma as the Saints had left. It eased him, but only slightly.

Swaying, the dark figure drew his muzzle upward and sniffed tentatively. Somewhere among those unfamiliar fragrances was the musk of Germanicus. A hurried thrum took over his heart. Crowfeather lifted his snout to howl quietly upon the edge of their claim. His voice was a ghost as the wind carried it away.