The first thing Peregrine thought of as he crossed into the wilds was his father.
He was gone, and he could not remember the last he'd seen him; seen his aunt Towhee. Seen Vesper and Prevost. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. Not that they cared.
The forgotten fuck-up son. A misgiving of his grand surname.
After a while, his wanderings grew more and more stretched in their length; he did not say goodbye when he left Phox for the last time, merely disappeared and did not look back. He could only imagine the disappointed, curved look to his father's aging face; the point of his gaze.
And now, in the passing weeks since his return to this wretched swath of wilderness, his coat had gone scraggly and wiry. He appears almost as if he were a mangy coyote rather than a grown wolf. Dust clings to his feet and his bones jut from beneath his skin. Surely he looks mangled; erratic, a wisp who must be hooked on some earthly substance that should never grace the tongue of a godly creature.
The wind is biting as his tongue flicks over the iridescent surface of the lake. The leaves of the aspens are brown, ugly; long past their peak.
How fitting a setting for his return, he thought.

A voice sounds from beside him like the crack of a whip; or maybe more like somebody who has chain-smoked Marlboro reds for twenty years. Hefty, tough, and for a second Peregrine feels fear spike the hair at his nape.
Who the hell are you? his voice creeps out from between chapped lips, head jerking rather violently from the water's edge. What happened to hi, how are you, my name is? You look like a cow had sex with a bullfrog.
And it was true, she kind of did. When he gets a good look at her, he cannot help but notice the peppering of — spots, yes, a wolf with spots. His eyes did not deceive him. But that was not the point. What did she want from him?

Who does this bitch think she is?
Her laughter is a crow's caw. He had just traversed god knows how many miles, and this was his reward? Fuck you, his lip curls upward into a snarl, eyes fine-lined into a scowl. you don't know what I've been through. Leave me alone, you big cunt.
She wants him to bathe? Fine. With a melodramatic huff, Peregrine lurches forward until his paws dip into the frigid lakewater. His teeth clack as a hiss rumbles from his throat. He watches as minnows dart around him at all sides and scatter; even they didn't want to stick by his side. That was a whole new level of pitiful.
The silence drones on for a good moment as his muscles begin to relax. His chin rests against the tepid surface; from there, he reaches a paw up to send rivulets of water cascading down his forehead. What do you want? Why are you still here?

It was in this moment, as his eyes landed upon the scrap she had brought to the lakeside with her, that Peregrine realized how truly, desperately famished he was. He sinks further into the water as if that would hide the gargle of his stomach. You chew loudly, he sneers. it's fucking annoying.
Was this how this woman thought making friends went? Not that he knew very much about that, either.
He dips his muzzle down to suck some form of relief into his stomach. He feels the shock of cold deep in his gut; it's not helping. You're really gonna just fucking sit there and eat that in front of me?

This was sad. This was getting really, really sad, and now Peregrine had no way to stop the plummet. Please? he snaps, much like an unbecoming prepubescent boy just figuring out he can turn his back on authority. C'mon, man, I'm starving.
He doesn't necessarily wait for an answer. He lurches out of the lake, water streaming down bony forelimbs, and he reaches out to snag what he felt was a deserving share of her kill. Before she can stop him, he swallows it nearly whole. His lips twist into a smirk. Thanks.
It was now that he realized he did not know her name, or where she was from. But decidedly, he did not really care. She hadn't bothered to ask him, either, so now, he shuffles away and begins to dry himself off with a coarse run of his tongue over his limbs.