Porcupine Ridge black mousepad that needs a cleaning

The black wolf did not spend much time pursuing mice; he was naturally in tune with the concept of calories out and calories in, and as a lone wolf, he could not afford to spend his energy on such little gains. In a pack, large game was on the menu, and if not, then hares. In short, mice were entertainment, though in desperate times he would not overlook them.

For those who were adept at catching rodents beneath the snow, like the fox, the task was reasonable. For him, and probably most wolves, it was considerably improbable. Taggarik chuckled. "They're tricky," he agreed. "I do it for sport more than anything," he shared as he took a few more paces, his nose barely grazing the top of the snow as he attempted to pinpoint the direction the mouse's trail went. His ears swivelled, hoping to catch the faint sound of tiny nails scrabbling, but he heard nothing. Perhaps the mouse knew he was there and was holding tight.

He hummed thoughtfully. "I don't think this one's far..." he trailed off, in a way asking his companion if he was up for a game of cat wolf and mouse.