Felltree Marsh Aholehole

The scent trail led her to a dead end in the middle of the marsh. Masquerade halted to ascertain her surroundings, thinking immediately of Chanterelle. Did she still lurk in the swamp? The juvenile lifted her muzzle into the air and sniffed, though she caught no wind of the she-wolf.

She turned, prepared to return to the rise. The sun had finally set, cutting the glare that had plagued her westward venture. The air cooled rapidly as she retraced her steps back through the marsh, pausing when she heard movement in the distance slightly north of her position.

Thinking it might be the prey she’d been tracking earlier, Masquerade prowled through the gathering gloom. She heard the distinct sound of footsteps and perhaps heavy breathing. Judging by these noises, she was tracking something middling in size.

Her ears quivered in surprise when the scent she eventually caught belonged not to game but to a fellow wolf. She was getting more adept at reading the information encoded in smells. Masque was fairly certain the stranger was male. More curious still, he was young. At least, that’s what her nose told her.

Hesitating for a moment or two, the svelte Toweard let out a light, inquisitive yip into the darkness.