Kintla Flatlands such deliberate disguises.

When the clouds had come calling in overhead, Mordecai had considered the possibility that it would snow again. It was likely, he supposed, finding as the nights settled in that sometimes there was just enough of a cold chill to remind him of what the weather had been like in his departure. Leaving the comfort and safety of the Spine in the midst of winter had not exactly been his most intelligent move, but the separation was needed. Truth be told, he found even now that the separation was still a necessity. For as much as he wanted to return to it, he knew it wasn't in the cards to be doing so. He avoided it, not out of guilt or fear of anger crashing down over his head, but because of the history that lied within the basin of low set mounds.

And as it were, there were many places further to the north and west that he had not explored. Among these were the forests and crannies of the flatlands. He had hunted in those flatlands many times, but the exploration had never been thorough. It gave him an opportunity to stick close to the Plateau, where the temptation to band together with Dante bubbled and intrigued him. There was also the thought of simply striking out on his own again, finding and seeing where the vast roads would take him. Yet in a sense, that was what he was doing right then and there, having followed the river west to where it branched out into nondescript creeks.

Among these branches and tributaries, he also discovered that he wasn't alone. As the rains spread out across the plain, he spied out the darkish figure that came bobbling through the yellowed, grassy tendrils through the haze. Uncertain whether he was hunting or not, the tawny Ostrega held back and observed, ears erect on his head as he took in the bigger picture. In the gloom, not even the grizzlies were out, nor the elk he had heard calling previously. Everything had bedded down for the coastal weather rolling in.