The wind feels colder than it should.

Radovan has never been an expert in the weather, but any old wolf can tell when the air is different. Unnatural. He finds himself shuddering down to the very bone, and loosing curses under-breath with every step he takes further north. His oxymoronic promenade toward an even colder climate seems impulsive at best (a death wish at worst), but the something that stirs his paws into action does not yet have a name.

In the past, he would have preferred caution to curiosity.

But now, what else does he have left to lose?

He ducks into the mouth of the tunnel, at first thinking that it will be his shelter for the afternoon. That his body is simply tired and his mind has yet to catch up. But as he slips past the threshold a cold wind bellows through from deep within, so strong it nearly knocks him off his feet. A disjointed, echoey whistling whirs through the impossibly dark cavern, hinting that air moves freely throughout the cave. No matter how hard he squints, however, he cannot see past where the soft silvery glow of the cloud-cover outside fizzles out into impenetrable shadow.

Just as he reconsiders the sense of staying in such a drafty place, he hears the gentle pattering of footfalls just behind him. Radovan practically whirls, but Plumeria is still a good enough distance away that he doesn't quite bristle. If she was intending an ambush, then she wasn't very good at it.

And considering the way she carries herself–with the saturnine grace he's seen only a few wolves capable of–he doubts she's anything the opportunistic ne'er-do-well.

Curious place, isn't it? he asks, and even he isn't sure whether he's referring to the whistling tunnel, or the cloud-smothered sky, or the entire steeped-cold countryside. Do you know anything about it?