3/22/2026, 10:25 AM
It'd been a little strange adjusting to the accommodations of what he was trying to learn as pack life. Bogart typically stuck close to Raisa both out of comfort and preference but he would occasionally venture the confines of Northfall's territory, familiarizing himself with the 'border markers' and deciphering which creatures were acceptable to wander past them. The weather started to keep him closer, though. A near-constant blizzard seemed to ravage the land and he wondered if he'd ever get used to that.
Small benefits came from it, at least. Bogart could count on curling up with Raisa in the 'den' where she'd tuck her face into his chest and he could ease himself to sleep to the sound of her heartbeat against his. His slumber was always so deep, impenetrable by little beyond his own stomach or stubborn sunlight, the latter of which had grown shyer and shyer as of late.
This morning would be different.
Bogart grunted, the warmth of the body being torn from his side caused him to stir, Raisa? he mumbled groggily, the vowels stretched and lazy. Outside, even amidst the whirling winds, he could make out her noises. Hurried breaths. A worrying retch.
"Raisa?" said Bogart, blinking to, festering fret kicked his cognizance into gear. He lifted up, narrowed his eyes on her frame, and called, "You okay?" He expected her to either answer or flip it back on him. Instead, she stood there, stock-still.
Till she wasn't.
Raisa shot off in a flurry, startling him to his paws, hackles itching upright. Had she caught the scent of a meal? Not much else made sense to him when he remained under the impression that claimed territory was safe. Bogart followed, careful-footed as he stepped out of the den, already bracing for the winds to meet him. He turned in a half-circle trying to make out what could've led her elsewhere before the sun was even a flickering existence on the horizon, and wrinkled his muzzle at the discovery. Vomit? Now that worried him. Raisa leaving worried him more. Surely if she was terribly ill, she wouldn't have left when she knew he could've helped or eased the discomfort until someone better equipped arrived.
Did that mean she was ill?
Unable to settle with the sudden absence and unwilling to risk her well-being after witnessing her flee into the morning like hell was nipping at her heels, Bogart put to work all those nasty Canadian winters where he trekked through elbow-deep snow following a trail so thin a mouse would miss it, just to find who he went out for. Raisa's path differentiated in that she ran fast and she ran far, leaving minimal time for the already transient snow to take in her scent but where one issue arose, he earned some slack for another. The blizzard wasn't leaving much behind. Whipping winds, fierce flakes, snow that laid then would be whirled away as tiny lumps. It made her tracks easy to follow.
For a short while, he trailed after at a steady mushing-trot. Bogart learned long ago that hurrying in conditions like this wouldn't get him to his destination faster, only risk him being incapable of being any use at all if he got hurt.
This modest pace would give way to him noticing the great disturbance in the snow. Ice and dirt scattered about. He investigated, nose to the ground and ears alert.
Bogart perked up, quickly alert. From the signs of trouble, he traced a line to the edge of a small embankment scattered with narrow ledges and footholds and fixed unnervingly above a decent drop to other jutting rocks below. "Raisa?" Bogart hollered out, because the unfortunate drop made sense for her tracks so abruptly ending. When her voice sounded out, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, he said, "Hold on! I'll find ya' a way out."
Which meant finding a way down.
Luckily for him, a little backtracking allowed him to find a narrow but consistent icy-path that sloped toward that strange alcove of a ledge. He had to make a considerable jump to bridge the remaining space between the path and the ledge, but it was wide enough that it only quickened his pulse... a lot. "You okay?" Bogart barked it, worry strangling his voice more than the frazzled-frustration that'd been left to lap at the surface of his composure. "Shit, what spooked ya'? Musta been mighty bad if ya' made it this far from the den, darlin'."
Small benefits came from it, at least. Bogart could count on curling up with Raisa in the 'den' where she'd tuck her face into his chest and he could ease himself to sleep to the sound of her heartbeat against his. His slumber was always so deep, impenetrable by little beyond his own stomach or stubborn sunlight, the latter of which had grown shyer and shyer as of late.
This morning would be different.
Bogart grunted, the warmth of the body being torn from his side caused him to stir, Raisa? he mumbled groggily, the vowels stretched and lazy. Outside, even amidst the whirling winds, he could make out her noises. Hurried breaths. A worrying retch.
"Raisa?" said Bogart, blinking to, festering fret kicked his cognizance into gear. He lifted up, narrowed his eyes on her frame, and called, "You okay?" He expected her to either answer or flip it back on him. Instead, she stood there, stock-still.
Till she wasn't.
Raisa shot off in a flurry, startling him to his paws, hackles itching upright. Had she caught the scent of a meal? Not much else made sense to him when he remained under the impression that claimed territory was safe. Bogart followed, careful-footed as he stepped out of the den, already bracing for the winds to meet him. He turned in a half-circle trying to make out what could've led her elsewhere before the sun was even a flickering existence on the horizon, and wrinkled his muzzle at the discovery. Vomit? Now that worried him. Raisa leaving worried him more. Surely if she was terribly ill, she wouldn't have left when she knew he could've helped or eased the discomfort until someone better equipped arrived.
Did that mean she was ill?
Unable to settle with the sudden absence and unwilling to risk her well-being after witnessing her flee into the morning like hell was nipping at her heels, Bogart put to work all those nasty Canadian winters where he trekked through elbow-deep snow following a trail so thin a mouse would miss it, just to find who he went out for. Raisa's path differentiated in that she ran fast and she ran far, leaving minimal time for the already transient snow to take in her scent but where one issue arose, he earned some slack for another. The blizzard wasn't leaving much behind. Whipping winds, fierce flakes, snow that laid then would be whirled away as tiny lumps. It made her tracks easy to follow.
For a short while, he trailed after at a steady mushing-trot. Bogart learned long ago that hurrying in conditions like this wouldn't get him to his destination faster, only risk him being incapable of being any use at all if he got hurt.
This modest pace would give way to him noticing the great disturbance in the snow. Ice and dirt scattered about. He investigated, nose to the ground and ears alert.
Bogart perked up, quickly alert. From the signs of trouble, he traced a line to the edge of a small embankment scattered with narrow ledges and footholds and fixed unnervingly above a decent drop to other jutting rocks below. "Raisa?" Bogart hollered out, because the unfortunate drop made sense for her tracks so abruptly ending. When her voice sounded out, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, he said, "Hold on! I'll find ya' a way out."
Which meant finding a way down.
Luckily for him, a little backtracking allowed him to find a narrow but consistent icy-path that sloped toward that strange alcove of a ledge. He had to make a considerable jump to bridge the remaining space between the path and the ledge, but it was wide enough that it only quickened his pulse... a lot. "You okay?" Bogart barked it, worry strangling his voice more than the frazzled-frustration that'd been left to lap at the surface of his composure. "Shit, what spooked ya'? Musta been mighty bad if ya' made it this far from the den, darlin'."
