Deepwood Weald blood of the north

gusts of wind sung through towering pines, sharp against the damp earth beneath his paws. a darkening sky spoke of a storm yet to come, clouds of onyx black swallowing yawning blue. even in it's promise, he did not move. let the storm break against his back—he would revel in it, for he had weathered worse. 

his breath left him in slow, curling plumes, the rise and fall of his chest steady as the waves beyond him. there was something restless in him tonight, old and aching, but he swallowed it down like bitter mead. no time for sentiment. 

a sound—faint, but enough to break the silence—pulled his ear back. not wind. something more. someone more.