Kintla Flatlands with my boombox over my shoulder

The snow was higher here; it rose up and over her paws. It spiralled out of the sky in a dizzying cascade of soft white, falling all around and spotting her fur with white. Dawn huffed through her maw, breath a white cloud. Evening had brought with it a frigid drop in temperature, the kind that froze rivers in their tracks and had most creatures curl up out of the cold. Not her, however.

Her gaze was on the ravens, the darker patches of black in the night. There were many of them, cawing and taking flight only to land again in the same place. Ravens signified a kill, and distressed ravens - well, she didn't quite know. Perhaps a fresh kill, one they couldn't get into; she knew that beaks were not designed for ripping through frozen fur and skin. With this hope in mind, she moved quickly through the dark, eyes on the birds before her.