From the heights of the fjord, the inspiring visage of a sprawling lake had drawn the predator in. Where there were copious amounts of freshwater there was almost a guarantee of prey, and Skellington, if nothing else, was a wolf of opportunity. For the past year or so he'd chosen to occupy haunts where the water was freshest and the prey stayed marching - but this also meant risking a run-in with competing predators; not his favorite pasttime by far. The feat was easy enough in these months, a time of eager sunshine, happy births, and new growth. A time to thrive. So he moved ahead without forethought or concern for when his next meal would come, for he was sure it would regardless.


With the sun hidden somewhere in a cluster of hapless grey cumulus, Skellington skulked about the lakeside. He kept his nose low to the ground and snuffling, appearing to be interested in little else but finding a trail that would lead to the filling of his gut.


But in truth, the only thing presently on his mind was how much his neck hurt. The left crook, where his shoulder and throat met, had been torn by foreign teeth some days ago and was now rendered unsightly by a shining red scab that threatened to bleed again if he moved too roughly. His mood soured as the face of his tattooer surged to the forefront of his thoughts, and a snarl started to forge its humble beginnings deep within the brewing barrel of his chest. The blight!