Blackfeather Woods watercolor melon

He could have kept going south, Ovaltine supposed, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd wrapped right around the mammoth mountain and headed north until he'd come to a decent-sized creek. From there, he wandered west. He wasn't tracking anything at all. In fact, he wasn't heading in any particular direction. Oval planned to zig-zag until he was zigged and zagged out. For the past two years, he'd zigged and zagged halfway across the earth (an exaggeration, of course) doing whatever pleased him. His gaunt figure was a testament to the fact that he hadn't had a decent meal in that amount of time. He scavenged and stole when he knew it wouldn't get him killed, and filled in the gaps with small game.

"Another pack," he muttered, stopping suddenly when he caught a whiff of their scent on the air. It was still a ways off, but he had no doubt that they would have sentries keeping watch, ensuring that their borders were not breached by scavengers like himself. The four year old licked his lips, then fell into a sit, observing the dark and moody forest with a neutral expression. His green eyes stared lazily into the bleakness of it, though he felt no need to venture further than he already was.