Emberwood whitemarch

It was warm enough today that whatever snow piled onto the ground was turning into mush, a slow melt that dripped ponderously from the branches of the bare trees. But his eyes were not drawn to the passage of time marked by icy droplets falling from the limbs; winds had begun to rise and stir up the stiff tufts of grass that stuck out from the small rug of white. Just last fall Dovev had traveled here to inspect and explore, and now he returned in the midst of winter, privy to silence the season brought- where birds had fled their perches and elk huddled on the frozen wasteland.

He never thought he would be bound to such an entity as Swiftcurrent, for in his mind, Dovev had always pictured a pack to be a contiguous shape that never seemed to settle, impermanent on the landscape. But to his surprise the familiar smell was etched into the air, warning whoever strayed even this far that their kingdom was growing. And how could he explain his little hiatus when even the slightest mishap could easily throw the pack into war? They were already so close when the arctic stalker had slipped away.

Moving out from under the angular shadows of the wood, Dovev took a few paces across the crunchy wet ice to mount a small hill on the frozen plain. His gray eyes were turned to the southeast, where he knew the creek still flowed in some parts, it's power never conquered by winter. How many faces would he recognize if he ever decided to stray back there?