Icy toes and Ice Floes

To the wolves, it was widely known but seldom talked about that sometimes other canids came from other places with wild and lurid tales of cultures and religions foreign. That there were other lands not Boreas or Auster, and by that principle of not being those two lush and flourishing continents, the ones who came were gaunt or half-starved, their tales seemingly maddening by lack of context and their pallor complexions.

Yll was one of these. Fate had chosen winter's approach as the season of his escape from his own bondage, and as he travelled south from his place, the water froze deeper and more solid. Luck would have it that most of the way was ice or ice floes, suitable for a fast gait and each mile traveled on foot instead of in the water steeled his heart that this was the right way. What he attempted would be known by those of his lands as a broken internal compass, and that was why only the fate-driven had a second, stronger magnet on their compass, instinctively pulling them to Boreas, or to Auster, or to the many little isles on their shores.

There was nothing epic or glorious about his journey, as evidenced by the ribs that clearly poked through his medium build, hidden by dark fur, but perhaps detectable by one who knew to look for it. When he had travelled, he had done so quickly, stopping only for water, because there was no prey and because the miles seemed only long and hard and he knew if he lay too still in wait for something that never came, he may simply freeze over, and never move again. When he saw land, he ran faster across the shifting ice jetty, ignoring his paw misplacements from exhaustion as best he could and swimming now and then until the next one. And when he did reach land, he found this place as hard and unwelcoming as the life he left, which made it all the more easy to adjust. He drank water, he ate dung, a pulpy sapling branch, and a tuber. He would have eaten the rabbit that was eating the tuber, but even though he gave full-hearted chase, he was simply too weak to catch it. These things filled his stomach and offered little nutrition, but it was still better than nothing but the frigid biting air that was all his lungs and stomach had to swallow the last few days at the mercy of the ice. He napped under a great fur tree and regained a little strength, then in a nook created by a rocky overhang, and felt a little better.

With refreshed mind, body, and soul, he knew that he needed to know three things. One, that he was safe. Two, that what happened on his land would not happen here. And three, where he might find a heal-all to attend to his minor abrasions, frostbite, and find sick-meals that would acclimate his stomach from his travels nothing to whatever prey this land had to offer. He cleaned his paws while he thought, and tended his wounds.

He rose stiffly, ignoring the creeks in his bones, the pains, and the sheer exhaustion. He would likely stay in this place, but he could not stay in this area, as there was no food, no answers, and no companionship, so he needed to keep moving. He forced his body into a slow trot, heading south from the very northern tip of the ice spires that named Cathedral Point.