Dahozhoni Meadow he was living on borrowed time

The meadow had become somewhat of a haunting ground for the fire-touched boy. The desert plants with their swollen leaves provided not only a respite from thirst, but also a source of fascination for him and his every-broadening mental library of flora.

A flash of black cuts like a knife through the pale sand; he follows it curiously until he spots the figure of a wolf, no bigger than a pup, chugging water like it was her last day on earth. Sympathising, he knew the feeling. 

He settled into a purposeful trot, letting out a gentle chuff so not to startle them too greatly. "Hey kid," he spoke gently, settling next to her before he drank his fill too. "You lost or something?"