Blackfeather Woods The changeless thing that lurks behind superficial mutability

The woods were quiet lately. Too quiet. His sister was long at prayer these days and Titmouse was descending ever further into a nameless madness. Ramsay had made a mental note to check in with the Decima and then failed to follow up on it; he was too busy, he told himself, but really he just wasn't sure how to confront monsters of the mind. He didn't know what ailed Titmouse and he didn't know how to fix it. For the dwarf, it was easier to maintain his distance, much as it pained him.

Instead he tended to the pack's borders as always, keeping them fresh and strong. He branched out from his usual duties to stock caches and make sure the pack's water supplies remained untainted by the prevalent snow mold that came on winter's departing heels. He made little time for his pack mates; before long he couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to one of them. He realized it with a start as he was perusing a half eaten carcas and abruptly changed course. There was something he meant to do and it had slipped his mind.

With a short, low call for @Tundra, Ramsay began to jog through the woods in search of her.