Sleepy Fox Hollow But you're perfect being yourself

Occasionally, the scent trail broke and Anselm was forced to double back. 

On one such instance, he encountered the faded scent of Etienne. There was a paw’s imprint in the snow; its outline crisp and perfect. 

Silently, the man placed his paw print besides that of the seaborn — sea and earth, water and fire — two indelible marks in the snow that would fade like everything else. 

Anselm turned back to where he’d last found Ciri’s scent. She’d crossed into the hollow by the stream’s mouth. Here Anselm deposited a hefty stream of urine, scraping the snow and mud with his paws. His scent was pervasive here now — for good measure he rubbed his body along a score of low sagebrush. 

This ritual did little to placate Anselm. He dropped to the snow and rolled vigorously. When he rose, powdersnow stuck to his ruff. 

He shook the snow from his pelt and took stock of his work, silent as the stream rushed alongside him.