Barrow Fields sky underground

A strange feeling woke him, not too terribly long after he'd fallen into fitful sleep. His eyes blinked open to snow and brush, and he laid still a long moment, flicking his ears to remove the muffling sheet of snow.

The rest of the world was muffled, too. Even the paw steps that seemed to crunch in italics rather than bold.

Dutch lifted his head to watch a dark little wraith skitter around his kill. Close enough to catch her scent, mangled by the cold as it was. Sea salt. Rot. Something else that felt dark and seething. He recognized her at once — but as who or as what, he could not quite place.

Something about her, though, burned its way through all the layers of apathy and grief. Suddenly, he did feel lonely — if lonely was a synonym for hungry, for restless.

He rose without thinking, taking long, slow strides toward the shadowy apparition. Not quite hunting her, but not quite not hunting her either.