Fairspell Meadow And a black car that matches your blackest soul

The scent of pronghorn pulled Anselm from Paleo, petering out into the faintest trickle by the time he reached the flatlands. He'd lost the scent somewhere in a patch of sun-dried timothy.

A new scent took command of his interest: wolf, by the measure of his nose. Another scent clung to Melody's path that Anselm recognized immediately as the cloying scent of sickness. Mahler had taught him this once, a lesson Anselm would never forget.

He contemplated pursuing at all. At last his curiosity won out, and Anselm found himself nosing along the trail until he came upon a delicate young wolf perusing berries with care.