Fox's Glade Back to the street where we began

I now present to you all the hot mess that is Esteban.

Esteban slowly emerged from his sloppily built shelter in the Fox's Glade forest. Daylight streamed from the cracks in between the snow-coated trees, hitting him in the eyes and causing a long string of half-asleep Spanish swearing to fall from his mouth. He shook out his coat of many colors and struck out to find a decent breakfast, and hopefully run into some lady friends. Male friends would work too, and possibly lead to pack. Which had the lady friends. 

Letting a slow, deep yawn to stall him, he resumed his not-so-silent trot through the trees. It would not be called silence, for there was the clear sounds of a wolf who was not accustomed to the winter. I.e. the muffled crunch of snow under enormous paws and under the breath swearing about the snow. And the cold. He should probably find a pack soon. Or a friend. Preferably a lady friend.

Esteban's golden gaze finally rested upon a warren, on which he eagerly fell. A short time later with several mis-attempts, he emerged from the area triumphant, with a plump rabbit hanging from his large maw. He laid down on a small clearing, away from the accursed snow, and started on his trophy.