Grouse Thicket cry wolf [malice]

He is, at first, unsure of himself. After all, the very terrain he treads he is uncertain of, does not know how the ground underneath his feet is to move and rumble, whether it groans from the weight of all the world upon it. Ah-ah, these are the things Ysengrin wishes to discover, wishes to weave tales of and spin the stuff of dreams from before he returns home, across the seas, under the watchful gaze of Father-Sun and Mother-Sky. To exotic lands and family undiscovered! He lingers to test the scent in the air only slightly, finding the smells of bird and bone, sharp, serpent eyes tracking movements in the dark.

There! Just barely there he makes out the silhouette of a bird, a grouse - fat in preparation for the coming winter, aye! He is quick, lightning-quick to hustle over, near leaping o'er the ground towards his prey, his reward, his right as wolf and predator. He waits, careful to stay downwind, hungering for the succulent flesh in his jaws, but does not slaver. No, Madir has always said never to drool like an uncouth beast - he is wolf and wolf he must be in thought and speech and action, in daily tasks well done. 

Instead, Ysengrin waits, eyes a-glow in the deep of a thicket, small stature concealing as easily as it betrays the prey. And then, he leaps, crushing in his maw - a graceful kill, perhaps, the clean separation of head from neck. Ah, hunger! He tears into the meat, muzzle bloodstained and silver-grey peering out, ever watching, ever waiting.

@Malice woo thread