Bramblepoint the graveyard, the turnaround, it changed in you somehow

Bringing to present day with permission.

The white wolf strayed from his companions in search of something for them to eat. Skwol had a keen nose. His tracking capabilities had been lionized back at the Broken Fang and that admiration was not out of place. He had picked up on the dead bird as he passed by it some several wolf lengths away. Branches and twigs rose across his muzzle and skimmed over his ears (they were laid back against his skull protectively), as he nosed through the briar. He found the bird and his head bent so that he could sniff at it, his warm breath shifting the feathers before he plied his nose to the fresh tracks nearby.

The bird had smelled fine to him — unfortunate that it was that it had died. It was not much for a hungry wolf but it was good meat and bone nonetheless, and he wondered why it had been left behind. Skwol cast his gaze in the direction the tracks lead, before he looked to the finch again. He admired the percher's plumage and tiny grasping claws and simmered in quiet respect, before he gingerly gathered it in his mouth and loped forward to find the wolf that had been here before him.

Seeing her red pelt ahead, he woofed to alert her to his imminent approach.

He laid the bird down and asked with a slight cock of his head,

"why did you not take this?"