Redhawk Caldera It's going to be a bumpy night

If one good thing could be said about wolves (and he had little good to say about them), it was that they left a lot around for the opportunist: caches, half eaten carcasses, bones plugged with marrow. He was not choosy about his food and pride did not feed the belly; it mattered not to him if he ate what another killed or what he caught for himself. So, on nights such as this when his stomach growled with emptiness, he had no qualms about stealing into a pack territory to raid their caches while they slept. His efforts were seldom in vain, and this time was no different: he scavenged a rabbit and consumed it quickly in large chunks until nothing but a few tufts of stray fur remained.

He swiped his tongue around his mouth, and was about to leave when his ear twisted to the sound of a voice, of wolves walking his way. His head did not turn to look; he darted into cover, hiding his form among the foliage. He watched, and then followed them as the large male and small fox-colored pup made their way outside of the territory, toward a neighboring lake. By then he had determined the male was sleepwalking, and was confident no other wolves were on their trail.

He broke cover. "You should have stayed home," he crooned to the pup, pale gold eyes glinting.