RE: The rivers are running low, smaller streams are drying up.
@Elettra / @Angier / any WR welcome
After the painful visit to the graveyard that was Darkwater Rapids, Rowan was quick to leave and continue his familial search. It seemed like common sense to fight rising water with higher ground so he set his sights to the mountain, but the yearling was sorely mistaken. There were surprisingly few scents to be found as he climbed the crags - even less of them were wolf. Winter had cleared the peaks clean out.
The lack of life made an easy traveling decision. Nobody was up, so he'd have to go down. But that didn't make the Serpent's Pass any kinder to navigate. Rowan ate when he could - always when he could - but it was harder to feed himself than he'd hoped. He caught the small things if there were any and scavenged the dead things when he found them. When the opportunity presented itself to descend the mountain he did so eagerly - but by the time he made it to the bottom the Attaya boy felt like a corpse re-animated.
Hard rock beneath his paws turned to dirt. The open air of the mountain range began to close in with trees. Specifically, willows. Now when the quiet May air stirred it brought with it a pack scent. Here he was almost beginning to think there was not a soul left in this place. He ignored it in favor of a different sense; dark ears twitching to the sound of flowing water. Rowan took off in pursuit, aware that each step brought him closer to the thick scent, until he reached the river. Leaning down he was disappointed to discover the surface of the water was peculiarly further away than the bank seemed to have suggested. In the back of his mind he wondered if that boded ill for the spring, but lapped at the river regardless. Maybe the water would sate his hunger, at least temporarily.
When his belly grew weary of it Rowan stopped and lifted his head. Licking residual liquid from his blackened maw he leaned his weight into his hind legs, adopting a lazy stance. His hard gold eyes scanned the lengths of the willows' branches, long and swaying in a faint spring wind. The markers were not too close up ahead but impossible to ignore from the riverbank. They were not only strong but well-established, worn into the dirt like a familiar trail. This pack had been here long and without trouble, it seemed. Perhaps they might be able to tell him something he could not figure out for himself.
Song inspiration: Golden
Tongues on the sockets of electric dreams where the sewage of youth drowned the spark of my teens...