Nova Peak keep the rage tender

Nothing else happens where the sound comes from. The tree don’t offer much sight through as they grow thicker. Thuringwethil doesn’t linger longer than a few seconds, anyway, turning back to see the tail end of a coyote disappearing through the foliage. Her brows knit together, wondering how long it had been there or if it had just attempted to pass through. She’d been too distracted—something she is not usually prone to doing—to really notice the approach. The sound from a moment ago had most of her attention but she shakes it all loose and does not pursue the now-absent canine.

With the wind still against her favor, she only turns when she hears the chuff from behind her, head turning around—this time slower—to see the wolf in the distance. Most of him stands out against the snowy backdrop but she can appreciate his size, though lacking in the loner-before-winter fashion. She wonders, briefly, if he is part of Larksong, though she can’t remember the last time she’d seen one and it has been some time she has often pondered if they are there at all. She chooses against engaging, standing stoic though her gaze remains hardened on the stranger.