The adventure up to the mountain peak with his mother, Salem, and Thistle seemed like ages ago, and yet barely a few weeks had passed. Still, in the days since Hawthorne had been grounded back down on the lower mountainside, the boy found his mind making several trips back up to the peak on its own, and every day he found himself wandering further from his mother’s den, climbing higher than each day before. It was dangerous to go alone, but…something called to him. That day with his family had been quite a journey, filled with stories and new experiences, and he yearned for more.

One such discovery those weeks past had been something quite enchanting: snow. At some point in their climb, the expedition group had crossed an unseen threshold of sorts, and the ground below slowly faded to white. Cold and wet under their paws, the powdery dusting had provided a momentary distraction as Hawthorne and his siblings took some time to investigate the material. They had all agreed it was some pretty strange stuff, but Hawthorne had, at the very least, found it quite enjoyable, its cold a nice contrast to his warm, overly exercised body, and he liked the way it seemed to dance over the ground every time a wind struck, swirling around them in a glittery spectacle. And in the weeks past, the boy had found his pale green gaze often wandering high up to that white-topped peak, recalling his experience with the snow and looking forward to the next time he could venture up to those heights and see it again. However, nature had chosen to answer the boy’s wishes in the strangest way.

Waking on this most recent morning, there was a particularly crisp and dry quality to the air inside Moonstone’s den, but Hawthorne had paid it little attention as he stretched and yawn in the routine fashion. Still blinking away the sleep, and his fur a pressed mess from the hours of inactivity, the boy had jogged out the into that familiar, harsh morning light with bleary autonomy, but any lingering haze was quickly shocked away as a sudden cold washed over him. Giving a brisk shake of his head to clear away sleep and shock alike, Hawthorne opened his eyes to find himself planted chest deep in that familiar white stuff called snow.

The boy was frozen in wide-eyed surprise for a long moment. It was, this stuff, undoubtedly that same magical substance that had dusted the mountaintop those weeks past, but… There was a whole lot more of it, and it had greeted him right at the very threshold of his mother’s den. A smile grew on the boy’s face, his tail starting at a slow wag and growing in speed and arch until he was the picture of excitement. With a bark of pure delight, Hawthorne dashed into the white abyss, his lanky body plowing through the white sea with absolute glee.

Hawthorne had no idea how much time he spent like this, all on his own, running, jumping, and rolling through the thick, pristine snow, but some time passed before a voice was heard calling over the cold, thin air of winter. Panting and covered head to toe in white, the boy sprang up from where he had been rolling at that moment, his tall ears twitching as they caught the faint echoes of the high-pitched tone. Despite the unfamiliarity of the voice, Hawthorne tilted his head back and answered immediately in his own strong, boyish howl before darting off toward the sender, eager to meet whoever shared the excitement of the morning. He would not have to go far, though, as the condition of his partial deafness had placed the girl much farther away than the reality of her position.

The boy had only made ten or so bounds in the direction of the original call before his body collided with something small and soft in a particularly solid way. Tripping over a combination of his own large paws and a small girl’s body, Hawthorne found himself sprawled in the snow, but he quickly found his way back to his paws, chuckling gleefully. Shaking the excess white covering from his earth-toned coat, the boy’s pale green eyes searched the surrounding snow for his new acquaintance. Turning a half-circle, he finally found the golden-toned girl and offered her an apologetic grin and wave of his tail.

“Sorry,” Hawthorne apologized, but the pure joy of the morning could not be smothered enough in that moment to sound properly apologetic. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Without much thought, the boy closed the small distance between himself and the girl, his deep, earthy brown nose inspecting her with a light contact.