Otter Creek [m] windswept pollen

He hadn’t felt the itch to travel in quite some time, though the hints of spring in the air stirred his blood. Talisman packed a lunch—some chunks of dried meat rolled tightly in a skin someone had left beside him as he slept some nights ago—and departed the mountain before daybreak.

Although the rising sun hurt his pale eyes, he roamed eastward. The warmth felt good on his pale face. Around midday, he stopped to enjoy his light lunch in a meadow. After he finished eating, he tried to sling the skin over his back. It took several attempts and a crick in his neck before he managed. Triumphantly, the coyote continued.

He didn’t even think about Moonshadow as he cut through some woods and her scent wasn’t there to remind him. Obliviously he traipsed through the trees until he came to a tapering creek. He followed it toward the mountain looming ahead. Talisman considered finding a niche in the rocks to spend the night, then heading back to Moonspear in the morning.

Long before he reached the foot of the mount, a scent threaded into his nose. Talisman froze, then sprang into a gallop. The skin on his back flailed and slipped away. He paid no attention. He followed his nose along the bed of the creek, arctic eyes cutting to and fro until he spotted her: a svelte female coyote gilded by the setting sun, the image well suited to the burning in Talis’s loins.