Holding onto ties that vanished

The afternoon was overcast, but the snows that had been falling the day before lingered, stale but unable to melt for the temperatures did not fluctuate to enough of a warmth to cause it to melt. Instead, the powdery snow crunched beneath his large paws, leaving a solid trail in his wake, the snow packing tightly under his weight and to the shape of his insipid ivory paws. Nagga did not make any effort to bother hiding his tracks - if anyone (on the off chance anyone was looking for him) wished to find him, they would only need to follow the lingering trail of his scent. Tracks or no tracks would make no difference. Not that he considered anyone was following him for the simple fact that no one really had any reason to need to find him. A pause in his steps was given as a meager glimpse cast over his shoulder to see the darkened indents in the snow where he had stepped studied his tracks before with an errant shrug, sunset orange eyes took in the unknown path before him. He seemed to have wandered into a meadow of sorts, for while he could see trees - towering firs and mountain scenes in the distance, the landscape directly before him seemed barren of woodlands. It was a tad harder to commit the layout of lands to memory in the stark barrenness of winter, without being able to see the unique landmarks that would serve to assist in such a task. Regardless, Nagga was persistent. If he wished to take up the task of ‘scout’ in Relic Lore he would need to be fluent with knowing the lands, which territories offered the best shortcuts, a rough estimate of where each pack had staked their claim, et cetera. Even, where the herds tended to migrate and settle around - though that could have easily been considered the job of the Hunter, it was knowledge that would remain beneficial, regardless. The herds, Nagga noticed, seemed to be all but gone; scarce - no more than ghosts, like himself.

Though youthful, Nagga was far from ignorant (on the contrary it could be claimed that he was almost too clever for his own good), it was easy enough to know that they in Relic Lore have not even seen the worst that this winter had to offer them, and already prey was becoming increasingly harder to find - each corpse, picked at by scavengers and rotting or (if they were lucky) preserved by the cold was like a rare treasure; and far too tempting to hoard to one’s self despite the desperate need of the whole. The feral instinct hell bent on survival was like a disease, and even Nagga despite his desire to be selfless felt it whispering dark lullabies and poisoning the roots of his brain with temptation. This was no time to be selfish and he hardly doubted that any pack would put up with such selfishness -- especially when famine was knocking rather persistently at their door. Every little scrap of food might make the difference between life or death, between perseverance or failure. Defeat was not a possibility that Nagga was interested in.

The faint scent of a pack - likely carried on the breeze that was coming from the north, downwind - caught Nagga’s attention and caused the ghost to pause in his venture. Nose lifted towards the sky, deciphering what little information he could gleam from the wind; which wasn’t much, admittedly. For the sake of not being confused with a trespasser - because the very last thing he needed was a pack’s unnecessary wrath on his head like the bounty of an outlaw - he decided to stop where he was currently, a far cry from their borders. It was better to be safe than sorry, even his brazen and bold Amazon mother, unafraid of death, had drilled the concept of caution in Nagga’s head as a child. Caution, Nagga had come to learn, was a man’s true best friend; and closely the ghost kept it, like a coveted secret.