Northstar Vale constellation

He roamed at the base of the arbutus for a few minutes. His nose started down along the base, sniffing at the soil, but he inevitably drew his gaze up and down the trunk, searching, studying. When finally he crept around to a segment he was contented with, Tryphon raised up on his hind legs and tried to climb his way up. It was impossible, obviously. But like a coonhound, his attention sought the sleeping hawk as if it were a tree'd fox; he watched it, his claws scrambling against the trunk, trying to figure out how to reach the bird without disturbing it. He was so focused that he remained unaware of present company, up until he slipped — slamming his chest against the trunk — and winded himself, collapsing in to a pile of nearby leaves with a thrwump. Smooth man, smooth.