One or two? :o Also, BACKDATED to 23 September.

The tawny-furred youth had left Dahlia de Mai for the moment, heading beyond its borders with no particular destination in his mind. It was not that he found life within the pack suffocating; on the contrary, it was the very freedom within the Dahlian lands he felt that had driven him to leave the territory on this day. It had started out beautifully sunny in the morning, with the merry skies proclaiming a clear forecast, but by noon, the temperature had dropped considerably, and a foreboding cluster of clouds had begun to drift over the horizon. Shadow cast over the land, Harlowe continued onward, unaware of the threat of storm—he did not consider that an hour later, he would find himself crouched beneath a tree, his body bent over the bag he used to carry his things around, clutching it protectively in an attempt to keep it (and the precious notebooks and books within it) dry. Though it was leather, he did not want to cause unnecessary damage to the bag, and so he labored to keep it dry, resigning himself to movement only when he could stand the rain no longer.

His body bent to protect the bag as much as possible still, the youth continued forward through the rain, peering through the gloom at the endless trees, regretting his decision to take a walk now more than anything. He had intended to find absolute solitude for a day or even three days out here, and instead he was miserable and soaked to the bone before his first six hours had passed. It took another twenty minutes of wandering before the youth came across his salvation—a park ranger's cabin, long abandoned and clearly disused. One of the windows had been broken out, and Harlowe spent a few minutes fumbling in the darkness before he managed to get one of the candles he carried with him (for optimal writing and reading at night, of course) lit in the most wind-free corner of the cabin. He set about blocking the window as best he could, using the tattered remains of the blanket on the bed to cover the window and shifting the tall dresser in front of it.

Upon moving the dresser, the wolf discovered a small litter of raccoons in the corner where it had been. The mother was absent, either trapped outside in the storm or killed. The little things blinked up at him in confusion. They were older kits, nearly able to fend for themselves—even so, without their mother, they were helpless, and Harlowe fell upon this easy opportunity quite eagerly, devouring two of them immediately and leaving the others in one of the dresser drawers for later. The mother might not be so easily dispatched, but he had come prepared—he had the fortune to come across a small pocketknife on one of his excursions around the old towns in Dahlia, and he could use it well enough to kill a raccoon, or so he figured. With his meal and housekeeping finished, the youth set about lighting the fireplace in the corner, smashing the chair and a few desk drawers to pieces with his long legs to provide firewood. Kindling was shaved from the very walls of the cabin with his claws, cut off in long strips. Comfortable at last, the youth settled to the end of the bed, his back to the wall and notebook propped on his knees, and set to writing, the storm still raging outside.