March 18th; Well past nightfall; Clear; 21 ° F, -6 ° C.
Why Skoll had decided to come slinking around the pack den at this time of night, he hadn't been quite sure. One moment, he had been minding his own business, creeping about the borders and keeping an eye out for anything that was out of place or unwelcome on Archer lands; then, several moments later, he had been struck with an idea... A whimsical notion and need for courage and cunning. He left his post at the eastern borders, leaving the mountainside at his back. Through the budding willow branches, he wove his way back to the heart of Willow Ridge with his head low and ears swept back.
The gaping mouth of the den met him first and he tentatively approached it as though he had come in attempt to steal something from its depths. His eyes roamed about the area, searching now for a pile of agouti fur, wondering if the Lyall had slept outside for a change. He had to squint; Angier's coat, he knew, had changed with age, and suddenly, with the frost melting from the warming weather and spring rains, the man was easily camouflaged against his surroundings. Summer, though, would be a different story, when the vivid greens gave him away.
As quickly as the thought had come to full fruition, the desire to disturb Angier had gone. The air was too still and he held his breath, opting now to make himself scarce. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to come all this way. Perhaps it was better if he left his elders alone...