Whitefish River another year without dying

His tongue drew out to sweep across the sides of his muzzle in contemplation before he spoked, deep voice rumbling from within his chest. "You," He gestured awkwardly, unsure how to address her; conversations were not his strong suite. "Do you know the name Mawk Saefyn? Or Illecebra?" If not, perhaps he should simply be on his way, but if she could give him any hints, clues, to their location, then the woman would recieve his thanks. 

A chilled breeze ruffled through his fur, but it did not freeze the wanderer's skin - his pelt provided him with a blanket of warmth, and it would take more than a little gust of wind to ice his bones.