Sleepy Fox Hollow worfeln

The cold bit at the boy’s face. His eyes squinted against the wind that carried it. It had been chilly for some time, but Emmerich’s fur had not yet thickened against the coming winter. Each time he left the den, the white-hooded boy was shocked at the falling temperatures. His time on the borders had suffered for it.

No more, though. The young wolf wanted to prove himself. He had grown tired of his time spent around the sleeping quarters. Restlessness ate at his paws and urged him out into the hollow, set for the border along the edge of the wood – the ghost forest. The grey of the skies made the trees look dismal. Emmerich might have turned if he did not catch a familiar figure in his sights.

Papa, he woofed in greeting, loping toward the gargoyle.