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private for Anselm, at least initially
Alacrity rose from her bed of fallen leaves at the first hint of dawn on the horizon. The dried foliage helped retain some of the body heat that escaped her thin coat, but close to morning the slender canine began to shiver. There was nothing for it except to rise and try to banish the chill from her painted limbs. Previously, she had kept warm by lengthy early morning jogs, letting her muscles and the miles bring steam to her breath. Since the fight with the Cour des Miracles wolf, this had become nigh on impossible. The damage to her shoulder was not severe, but her foe's claw marks were deep enough to leave a mark. Alacrity had fastidiously kept the wounds clean, and although trained in first aid, she was helpless to dress a wound in a country where all of the plants needed for her usual remedies did not grow. The damage was healing nicely, swiftly even, but the wild dog would not risk reopening the wound while she ran, even if it meant a semi-permanent chill.
On this particular day, she made her way south and east until the landscape began to resemble that which Anselm had described to her. Determined not to repeat her previous mistakes, Alacrity moved deliberately, nose working overtime to locate the Inferni border. Of course, she was not liable to be accidentally sprinting across borders in her current state, but at least she wasn't limping too terribly. Before long the strong scent of the clan told her she was close, and then there were skulls that told her she definitely was. Nervous, and still not quite sure what leap of logic (or was it faith?) that brought her here, Alacrity opened her maw and called for him, hoping he would recognize the high, yipping voice as her own.
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