The scent of unknown wolves began to wane the further they traveled, much to Faeline's relief. The last thing she desires was a confrontation with some stranger.

For the time being, she left Rhydian disregarded to take time for herself—he was more than capable of being alone for a while, she was certain. Faeline was still processing the vast land of ice that she'd found herself in. Was this all some strangely elaborate dream? In the back of her mind, the thought still smoldered. But she couldn't dwell on that. There were far more serious tasks at hand.

The ivory figure weaved past the dense woodlands of conifers, her pace slowing to a halt only at the sight of a river. Wide in girth, with turbulent waters so violent that the arctic dame didn't dare step into its currents. Instead, she stood at the riverbank, heeding the meandrous water's low moans resonating against the foreign valley.

She dipped her haunches to sit. Silver eyes inspected her surroundings, watching for anything—or anyone—who may leap out with an ambush. She was well familiar with the ways of living in such frozen wastelands. It was to eat or to be eaten. To kill or be killed.

It was in her childhood, anyway. Faeline turned to her front with an austere frown, though the erratic movements of her ears told of a refusal to let down her guard, and the perpetual state of awareness.