Beyond the borders of Whitestone, somewhere to the south and east was a small outcrop of rocks, though they were hardly noteworthy on the vast expanse of Tundra. Sometimes, Odin would come here and spend the night, his bright peach hued eye ever scanning the east and south for the familiar form of his mother or sister, or perhaps even the grown silhouettes of his younger siblings. The bite in the wind told him that if they weren't here soon, then they wouldn't likely make an appearance before the spring, but he held out hope. Surely things back in Torbine had not grown so dire that they would keep Morganna from her home for a full year? Would they?
Given his aversion to enclosed spaces it should have served as little surprise that the yearling preferred to tuck himself between the jutting stones rather than retreat into some dug out den. As long as he had some shelter from the wind he was fine, and perhaps that hailed as far back as his birth, the shallow bowl hastily shoveled beneath the towering stone, his mother's body providing all of the shelter they required. In fact, by the time they had been but a few weeks old they could no longer squeeze their bodies into the shallow sheltered hole. Perhaps if they had, he wouldn't feel so... panicked when he was forced underground.
So it wasn't an impending fear of a cave in that startled him from his sleep, but rather the familiar scent of blood, very thick and very close to where he slept. He pushed himself up onto lengthy limbs, head turning this way and that, perhaps expecting to see a mangy coyote or fox with a rabbit hanging from their jaws beating a hasty retreat but all that was evident was a phantom pool of blood, no trail leading to or from it. No sign of life in the range of his singular eye hindered by the dark stillness of the night.