Everyone is talking, planning, but Harrowheart is following his black nose. Once he's found the boys' clothes he soaks up the scent (teenage boys! horrible!) and sets to following it. He paces around the room, chasing their steps, suddenly awash in their presence. They were all over this place! And... They... Went...

Oh! Yes! Outside! He snuffles his way toward a window, stands on his hind legs long enough to pry it open with his forepaws. He pops his head out into the cold air and grunts as he breathes in the scent. There's no way he's going to be able to fit himself through with his spiked pauldrons on, so he pulls his head back in--

Or tries to. His neck fat doesn't make it easy and it takes one, two, three hard tugs before he pops back inside. He shakes his head and his ears flop in all directions, and when he's got his bearings again he growls in a bassy voice, "Outside."

Without tossing a look to the others he pads down the stairs and out toward the door, and he's off. It's pointless trying to track with his nose in the snow, so he keeps his snout raised and sniffs at the air above. In the well-traveled areas around the shelter he doesn't need to plow snow from the party's path, but his eager tracking leads them quickly to the torchline.

Now is when he finally looks back at his companions. "Kinner, plant your lead line. Everyone else? Get your weapons ready."

And just like that he disappears into the blinding gale.