Eat. Sleep -- and repeat.
It was at the least expected second, when the Ostrega trotted away from his improvised shelter, that the cruel reality of his most repugnant fear hit him directly in the face. Without noticing so, the dreaded monster he had tried to elude by leaving his home behind had caught up to him: routine.
Even if he had made a point of placing an immense distance between him and his past, the rust colored Ostrega had not been able to rid himself of the shackles of monotony.

This sudden realization was the equivalent of a natural disaster in the coywolf's mind. With his lips parting slightly to let a rush of curse words to spill from his mouth like water cascading down a mountain, the already ill-tempered male began to run erratically in the opposite direction he had first intended to take. He'd rather die that let the tedious claws of routine he had so desperately tried to run form get him back into their grasp.

Soon, he found himself slinking around the towering edges of the cliffs and sharp sides of the place known as Gryfalcon's Keep, his raggedy and tousled fur blending nicely with the earthen hues of the imposing mountain range. Suddenly, as he debated whether if trudging up one side to cause havoc in the prey birds' nest or jumping around the harsh edges would be enough to break off the routine he heard a distant voice echoing further ahead.
His crazy pirouettes would have to wait.
With his tail flagging behind him as he began to follow his nose to where the small female was at; but instead of stepping into the daylight and into the female's view the Ostrega remained concealed behind a boulder. His eyes following her every move as the wheels in his mind twisted into a plan.

With the female still in sight the Ostrega, who was still carefully concealed behind one of the jagged boulders that stuck out the scenery, crawled from his hide out,his ears tightly pinned onto his skull as he began to position himself for the ambush.

Slowly, slipping past the boulder with the same ease as a snake that slithers through the grasses the man stepped into the open space of the beach, his lean and long legs carrying him closer to the female, whom he approached with both confidence and malice.

"Ah, I wouldn't be picking that up, rubble collector"he barked with a tone full of condescendence as he focused his golden gaze on the iridescent glimmer of the feather the female had set her eye on a couple of moments ago. Then even giving importance to the natural ritual of introductions he went on,"Don't you know those feathers carry filth and disease from the birds?" he retorted, scrunching up his nose in feign disgust as he motioned towards the feather with his muzzle, a gesture that would only reinforce the lie he planned to shove down the innocent female's throat.

The innocence shining upon the female's icy eyes served only as fuel for the decieving man, who with the same tranquility with which he had walked in, continued to scheme his next response. The sourness that lied within his champagne colored eyes and his dissaproving frown were gestures that had been perfected through trial and error. This was not the first, nor it would be the last, that Ciervo toyed with another's head.

It had become a habit that nearly bordered the line of addiction. An addiction that despite proving to be harmful in his relations had brought more joy than sadness -- or so he liked to think. With his eyes now scanning the feather entwined in the female's charcoal fur he began to shake his head in mock dissaproval and concern, like a doctor that makes a diagnosis without speaking a word.

He allowed the tensing silence to linger for a couple more seconds before parting his lips dramatically, as if the female's statement had been spoken in a foreign language. "Well, you are wrong"he stated bluntly, giving his head an extra shake to add emphasis, "I am a shaman, I should know" he added suddenly, making a point to lift his chin to show pride on his fake title.
"And right below gull feathers," he began again, not realizing how fitting the mention of such bird would be for his little charade, "Gryfalcon feathers are highly infective" he barked at last, scrunching up his nose once more before getting a sudden urge to make things even more dramatic.
"You have not put in in your mouth have you?!" he urged, a well rehearsed look of pure concern curving his face into a frown.