Nyteshade had heard of the word sin in passing. Mostly from it passing through the lips of the devilish creature that was his grand sire. It had a nice sort of ring to it. It was a sin, Underidge had said, for Nyteshade to parade about with lies on his lips. In response the pup had tried to look at his lips, wondering if he perhaps the male could see something there that he could not in other's. Sin was an abstract word, the meaning clear and unclear at the same time. So it is what he ponders on now as he traipses about the blizzard in the middle of the forest; was it a sin to have wandered off from his dad? Blackthorne hadn't told him to stay put. He had failed to put in words that direction, if that is what he had wanted, and so maybe it wasn't a SIN, but maybe Nyteshade was sin walking. How confusing.

The cold out here wasn't the creeping sort. More the slam-into-your-body-and-leave-you-dead kind. It cut straight through his tufted fur, past that thin skin, and into the very marrow of his bones. Still, it didn't bother him. Well, it DID, but he was too preoccupied to care. The emaciated-looking boy only finds himself instinctively curving his path around the trunk of trees, letting the thick bodies protect his from the grasping wind and cold. He had left his decaying rabbit back in the shelter that Blackthorne had chased a group of foxes from. Now Nyteshade had the fluffy tail of a silver fox and he carried it between his jaws, ears pressed back as his silver-green eyes flicked about in a sort of bland curiosity.

His Pa told him they would return home to the marshes soon enough but in reality, Nyteshade didn't even remember much about the place. After all, he was only now on the verge of becoming a yearling and his grand sire had taken him early in life. How he survived was a mystery, one that Nyteshade wasn't too concerned in puzzling about. He was rather disappointed he didn't get to find out what death felt like.

A whimper makes him pause, one paw lifted so the red paw-pads are revealed. He cocks his head, fox tail dangling so the tail drags across the ground. Again, there, to his left, closer to the opening where the wind was vicious. He pads in that direction now, sniffing then sneezing as the cold wind and snow burn his nostrils. She is easily overlooked considering her tiny stature. Or maybe that was just the broken way she had about her, lost and helpless, and his eyes narrow in a quizzical look as he traipses through the snow, legs shaking a little against the steep snowdrifts.

She is new and thus, interesting, but the noise is deafening with the shrill screech of the wind. Nyteshade doesn't try to talk, only pushes close enough to nudge his nose against her side to get her attention. Then with a quick jerk of his head, he turns back and runs the way he came, easier now that he had cleared some of a path. He comes to a jolting halt and spin when he is back behind the cover of a tree, blinking his eyes at her and dropping the fox-tail to the ground. "It isn't wise to stay out there, ya know," he says in a cool, boy voice. "Why ya crying anyways? I don't see no wounds on ya." Then as calm as you please, he steps forward and begins to inspect her, sniffing and moving around her with the curious look of one who found a new species. His own front legs sport a few matching scars from his uncle's less-than-tender ministrations and there are gaps in the fur on his neck from where fur was yanked out.