fear is the little death that brings total obliteration

Scouting? He supposed that made enough sense, he didn't know enough about the packs of this land to say who lived where, or even who was who for that matter. For all he knew everyone got along all chummy, or hated one another's guts and things were teetering on the edge of war. This place would remain the same either way, wolves couldn't shape the landscape in the same way those who came before had. And a right mess they'd left things in too, he didn't want his end to be like that. The world ought to just forget, like he'd never been here at all.

And sand sure was good at covering up the past, constantly shifting and reshaping the landscape. Even their paw tracks would be gone within the day, their scent brushed away with it. What few creatures called this land home were no doubt nomadic, there was no use staking claim to a sand dune, not when prey was constantly on the move, looking for whatever and what little plant life that grew in these parts.

The lighter parts of the strangers pelt blended in well with the sand, the flecks of light like the stars above. Ronan did notice the other's eye movements were off somewhat, no direct eye contact, but he assumed it was more of a personal quirk than just hounding on the fact he was blind. His own eyes blinked more often here, bits of sand and dust making it rather unpleasant to keep them open for too long.

"Not much from the looks of it. If there is anything worth finding anyway, it's further in than I'd care to go. Wolves die looking for what ifs, maybes."