Bearclaw Valley rum. bring a bottle of it.

They walked for some time in the rain, with Aventus trying all the while to conceal how cold he felt. Merrick was able to stride through the downpour unaffected, so why shouldn't he? Terrible fear gave way to something like admiration when the one-eyed beast invited him along. Like an equal, or at least like a valuable addition, not a troublesome gnat to squash. As Aventus hurried in his sire's wake, he lengthened his little strides, made them as alike Merrick's as he could.

Until they came to a halt at the muddy bank of a river. Aventus was so focused on his footsteps that he almost bumbled right into the Bruin-witch, only narrowly avoiding clipping his heels as he swaggered to the side. Pick one, came the command. Aventus never picked up a scent trail and followed it intentionally before, but the knowledge was ingrained in him, as it was all wolves. He sniffed the wet, seething ground eagerly, finding many winding trails but none that were truly distinct.

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Aventus chose a scent that wound off to the left and began to waddle after it. Unbeknownst to him, it was the oldest scent trail available, but he dared not betray his uncertainty to his father with even a questioning glance.