Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

He emerges from the river with a gasp, the icy water churning as he kicks toward the shore. He seeks purchase on the slippery shoreline, finds it, and heaves himself out of the water with a soft grunt. Vermouth shakes himself vigorously to rid himself of most of the moisture, then smooths more of it away with rough brushes of his tongue. Soon he is merely damp, his fur sticking up in tufts like crow feathers.

To chase the lingering chill from his bones, he breaks into a brisk trot along the riverbed. He follows its winding southeasterly course inland, yellow eyes fixed on the trees ahead. He hasn't eaten in two days. Hunger pinches Vermouth's belly. He trusts he can find game among the wintry foliage, though the pungent smell of territorial markers slows his momentum.