It had taken several days to travel from the brook and up the spine. For some reason he felt he should travel to the mountain, and ahead it still loomed. Already he was thinking it a foolish pursuit. The climb was steep, the game was sparse at best and he had taken to gnawing moss and lichen from boulders just to ease some of the tearing pain in his gut. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as his muzzle wrinkled in distaste. There was no water to be found, and he knew unless he found some soon he would need to turn back, and make his way into the low lands again.
It was a chance gust of wind that bought the scent to him, and for a moment he almost thought it a dream, some cruel illusion intent on dragging him to his demise. But he figured he could last a little longer yet.
Wearily dragging aching limbs forward, he continued upwards, until beneath his feet the land began to flatten and grass began to sprout between the boulders. Puzzlement was clear on his face as the vision unfurled before him. A lake, nestled in the lower footholds of the mountain, spread out before him like a vision of heaven. He made haste to the waters edge to drink his fill before his nose discerned the scents that had been there all along. The frequent criss-crossing of trails and tracks that marked this as a local haunt. That indicated there was a pack nearby.
It went against all of his own beliefs to do so, but the gnawing in his gut and the ever present loneliness were suddenly overbearing. Yes they would expect things of him, but he was a master of providing little but disappointment and it wasn’t like he would care. All he had to do was convince them otherwise - not something he imagined would be overly difficult. Besides, he didn’t have to stay forever, just long enough to fill out his frame again and see if he could catch some sign of the silver siren...
His muzzle tipped to the clouded sky as he called out his greetings, and waited to see if they would be answered by one or the local inhabitants.