Otatso Wetlands Without the night.

Against all hope he listened for that returning howl. When it rose lyrical and soft over the raging winds Anselm bit back a choked sob; thousands upon thousands of layered emotions pressing against his throat.

Though the wind skipped and zagged, Anselm waited patiently -- listening for the lulls in the storm where his sharp nose could pull from the fresh snow and bitter cold enough scent to give him a direction.

He pushed for the treeline again, this time alternating between the high head carriage of a predator listening, and the low head carriage of a predator tracking: listening, scenting, listening again.

Pawprints wound around an old oak. Anselm snuffed along their crisp edges and gasped as the familiar scent -- one he could never forget -- wafted to his nose.

Etienne! He called as another gale whipped past him, shrieking up his back and parting his hackles. Somewhere in the forest where the storm was muffled, he knew Etienne was here -- his eyes scanned each shadow as his heart quickened.