Shy Deer Steppes to be honest you're kind of a goddess

The wolf roamed north, through one meadow to another (Dahozhoni, Fairspell), and sought the lake where he had last seen Gavrel.

There was no sign of him, which was a little bit depressing, but Drusk was not one to dwell on his circumstances for long. He went to the water's edge and swam there, washing some of the desert scents from his body; and then he went further, finding shallows where the lake narrowed among the steppes.

It was dry here, like the desert, but with less sand and more stone. While the wolf prowled he found little sign of anything alive; but he knew from his days in the Naaghai that many creatures would rest through the day, and when sunset would inevitably come along, they would awaken and fill this place again. He could bide his time, he thought.

There was always the option to move west towards the scents of hawthorn, or north again; but the thought of going up the center of the flatlands brought to mind the golden plains, the angry woman, and such things he'd rather avoid.

Along he flew, scouting the flatlands for signs of wolf-kill, or maybe just wolves in general. He had a fascination with the great beasts, and felt a sort of kinship with them – of course, the carrion they provided after a successful hunt helped raise his opinion of them greatly, too.

The crow soared over the usual packlands, finding no recent kills much to his chagrin, before changing course as he spied a dark figure marring the otherwise pale steppe. It was odd seeing a loner toughing it out in such a barren land.

Curious, Arsène dove from the sky, before releasing a solitary cry as he swooped by the male's hindquarters.

From this high, dry place Drusk could see for eternity, or very near to it. Staring eastward from the highest butte gave a steepled view of the far-away mesa; the horizon that way was ruddy almost, and the air looked to writhe beneath the sunlight.

A shadow dipped and shifted across his lower back and the wolf turned his forequarter as if to meet and catch it, but it wasn't anything at all—just a bird winging close. He snapped his teeth after the birds tail knowing he wouldn't catch it, and then followed the angle of their flight.

As the crow rushed the wolf, he turned with a swiftness that belied his large size, but snapping jaws failed to find purchase. Arsène let out a hoarse laugh as he swerved skywards, away from the dangerous teeth of the man, before beginning to circle lazily above him.

"Poor flightless boy," he teased, clicking his beak. "What is he looking for?"

The bird looks appeased by something; perhaps the obvious failure of Drusk to catch him, perhaps something else. The wolf stares up at it a moment and gives a chuff, not knowing the sounds it uses as its beak snaps.

Zir, has tih? Afis hezhah? He wonders aloud as he watches the creature coast so easily in the air. It had to have come from somewhere, and Drusk wondered now if a fresh meal was nearby — or maybe that was what drew the bird too, thinking the wolf could provide. A stalemate.

He quirks his head as the wolf looks up, catching his morning sun gaze with one beady black eye as he continues to circle. The man then shoots back what Arsène assumes is either a response or a question of his own, though he does not understand it – he has never heard such a language before.

Intrigued, the crow descends in a lazy spiral, landing a few paces away from the wolf, not quite relaxing his wings in case he decides to rush him again. "Common, boy, do you speak it?" he caws, demandingly so.