Felltree Marsh all i wanted was a pepsi

A few days ago he had woken up to see that Drusk had left him, and Gavrel could recognize the absence as a lasting one. Still, he did not move until well into the evening. Sleep gummed his mouth, he burrowed his cheek against the dirt, the sun hung lower and lower, and shadows lengthened into strange, ungulate shapes which populated the landscapes of half-dreams, half-wakefulness.

Still, no one. He finally got up and began his aimless walk.

He scaled the feet of mountains. Saw goats nearly parallel to the face of the rock, still somehow finding purchase. He shivered at the thought: an inch, perhaps less, keeping you from death. But this was the nature of many things in the world.

His path was not as fraught as theirs; he always chose the one of least resistance. It brought him to lower ground, a soft and wet depression in the lay of the land. His nostrils flared at the scent of stagnant water, the sweetness of vegetable decay.

Another dead end. For a fleeting moment, disgust twisted the features on his face, pulling the scar into a taut half-spiral. It ached and itched as it always did, and he hissed, allowing himself a moment of outward petulance.

Gavrel did not notice the other wolf standing across from him, who was obscured by the rotting body of a felled tree.