The Tangle i'm a good person i don't deserve to be mistaken for heterosexual

The scent of fresh blood draws the skulking wolf out of hiding. He is a distorted mirror image of the female, the same shades of mercury and obsidian arranged in a different way. The way he carries himself makes it impossible to discern his true height, but he is serpentine of spine and broad of paw, with a long lash of a tail that twitches agitatedly behind him. His presence scatters the lesser canid from the scene, but he pays her little mind — he is fixated on the female and her kill, his tongue slithering from beneath his flews to flicker across the sharp point of his nose. He inhales, a soft, insidious clicking sound undulating with the intake of his breath, and the bridge of his muzzle wrinkles as his lips peel back. Like a horse displaying a flehmen response, he points his nose skyward and breathes her in.