Bramblepoint That girl has tangled with the wrong man

The lone Duskfire, the very last of his blood line, pressed onwards. Largely ignoring the scent markers of any nearby packs. He was not ready to join one again. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be. Was it worth the risk of being stung by abandonment yet again?

The bitter cold of winter proved only a slight annoyance. Of northern heritage, he was made to withstand such unforgiving temperatures. Well out of his pup phase, his adult winter coat had grown in thick and dense.
He had spent the better part of the day scavenging. Searching for what he could find. Anything edible would do. His reward for the hours of searching was a putrid, rotting severed head of a stag. One that had been too weak or sick to survive the season.

Watchful, he picked his way through this dreary place to try and find a place to eat in peace. Luck wasn't on his side.