Moonspear We're dreaming on and on.

He hadn't eaten in days, and the strain of Winter showed in the narrowing of his hips. Talion had always been a lean wolf, but with his inexperience and having been fending entirely for himself for months, he'd been unable to bulk and store for the cold season. He was beginning to deteriorate quickly now that smaller prey and birds were starting to hibernate and migrate, and his fear of perishing in the cold became so real that he forced himself to do what he'd been avoiding all along: he sought to request a place in one of the local packs, rather than waiting for an invitation.

Snow fell lightly on the evening that Talion picked up the strong scent of a claim, and he made his way promptly in its direction. By the time he arrived, he was exhausted. Keeping his distance, the uncertain yearling traced his tongue along his upper lip nervously before tilting his muzzle skyward and sent forth a howl, requesting the presence of a leader. He then swept into a submissive posture to await the arrival of another, tail tucked between his hind limbs and ears laced back, periwinkle eyes scanning the mountainside for any sign.