slow dancer, oh, no answers

i am very rusty crusty

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With the earliest tendril of first morning light, the Ostrega rose from his thicket to survey the quiet, soft snowfall that greeted him. The mountainside was draped in all new white: a winter's morn, like any other that he had seen plenty of before, and on the mountain he had come to know--mostly.

However, he could not deny the spike of suspicion that tightened his jaw, setting tension down into his neck. Misplaced, especially compared to the peaceful landscape before him, and leaving him feeling strange the longer he let it fester. His hackles rippled up, but he shook the prickling sensation away.

So in search of a new center, he took a deep breath and set out into a walk, scoping for an easy trail nearby. He started from the ground up, drinking in a careful, studious look around as he took his time with this--like he had to be convinced. The earth, the trees, the elevation. Even beyond, up into cloudy white skies and through the whirling flurries... then back down to him, at his own paws once more. All as it should be, as well as he could tell. But what was it, then? Maybe he had slept on the wrong side, dreamed too deeply. What had he eaten last before bed, anyway? Did it matter? It seemed he was where he was meant to be still; this was still his home.

Mistrust in the fabric of this world was nothing new, but it had been long set aside, most days. Life had moved on, forged anew around it. Why it saw fit to rear its head today, he could not yet place. Something on the winds, probably... Perhaps the weather had something to do with it. Jarilo liked that explanation out of any, if he needed to have one, that is.

He continued on towards the lower reaches, and realized he had yet to see any other paw prints.

Where was everyone?

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