Deepwood Weald Check the cupboard for your daddy's gun

Grievous had gone further east than he originally intended, forgetting the shadewood for a time to see what precious terrain he might have missed. His explorations bring him to another shroud of tall trees that remind him instantly of his preferred forest further down the coast, but his is a victim to wanderlust, and does not think to return there immediately. Instead he spent his time hunting; and when he turned up unsuccessful in that endeavor, he decided to scavenge... which he had a far better time with after a while.

The victim was an unfortunate coyote, who had to give up his fresh meal to the weald’s bully in a turn of events he had not been expecting. Now, Grievous laid neatly beneath a broad tree (that also happened to be the scene of the crime), enjoying his unearned rabbit with overzealous delight.

It took but a moment for the hunter to suddenly become the hunted. His eyes found her before she could pinpoint him, and he watched her move carefully with a gaze tinged with interest and something else unreadable. Grievous could tell she was searching for him, hesitating every few steps as she tried to discern where the smell of blood was coming from.

He felt almost as if he could read her mind, feeling closer to her in his imagination the more he stared and the longer it takes for her to see him. The wolf doesn’t move; his head level and his fat paws crossed neatly over the pulled-apart rabbit he had there. Mere moments had passed, but to him it felt like an eon— and he had come to know her quite well in the time it took for cobalt to find gold in the shadow of his presently claimed tree. Grievous remained unmoved, coolly waiting to see if she would be on her way or dare to venture nearer.

The little blackbird came closer, every last bit of her composed of lithe, keen lines and noble features— for a girl her age. Grievous was beginning to feel a little disappointed with the ages of these females he came across. He was a wolf inclined to believe he had no need of a woman he couldn’t breed with, but very recently he’d taken on a long-game challenge of grooming himself a fitting mate for his cause... But he wasn’t looking into the indomitably fierce gaze of the fire-born sylph now. This black and blue-eyed creature was a breed raised apart. Even more like him than the wildheart.

The devil’s eyes glittered as she approached, her steps forward gutsy and cautious. His tail, which had lifted from the ground, was waving back and forth in swift strokes, almost as eager to meet her as he would be to a more appropriately aged female. He gave her no reason to stay back, so she did not— by far his favorite trait in any wolf, and especially the kind of daring he liked to see in a she-wolf. Even one as young as her. His lips pulled back into a delighted grimace as she spoke, and rising like a feather, he poised himself low over his meal. “A wicked little haunt to challenge me?” he laughed, his face wildly amused; wholly engaged by her mannerisms. He meant no insult, made clear by his impressed expression and willingness to participate in her spar. He happily shouted “Come! Take it from me.”