While spring was fast approaching, the days still carried frost in their breath. Larkspur did not need to journey to hunt if he chose not to—on days when he came home empty handed he would chose one of the older, weaker sheep of his flock and kill it. Their pelts were going to be made into something special once he had enough. He kept them salted and in a corner of the cave, near the route that led to the makeshift pen he had built. In summer he would expand it, but by then he would have more hands to help with such a task.
Yet he hunted daily, and this was no exception. He took the horse often, finding her presence a warm body and her girth would carry anything large he caught. They had spooked several hares, but Larkspur sought larger prey. A deer or goat would feed his family with plenty to spare. White-tipped hands idly played with the leather in them, recognizing that he would need to care for the tack soon. For that he needed grease, which would be easy to gather from water-foul once he took the time to catch them.
The horse snorted suddenly, alerting to a presence the wolf did not sense. His ears swiveled and his nose worked the air, searching for the source.
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