Luneshale Pass naught left but the tree you were certain

a howl short in length rouses soto from tending a new patch of green. he shakes garden-dirt from dark fur and sets out, leaving @Hiro to finish the irrigation row they’d dug. 

the face at their border is familiar; the beige boy with eyes of a desert ghost. soto notes the thinning of his flank and knows why he’s come without needing to ask. 

que tal? he likes that the scavenger stands a respectful distance from their scent markers, and passes his single gaze over him in brief approval of this.