The Bracken Woods Apathy

Warbone loped forward with a great, sweeping stride. His ears were kept aloft and oscillating, while his nose performed slow motions to each point of a perceived compass rose, intent on missing nothing. Everything about him was tuned finely to such repetitive motions; a tracking fiend on autopilot. Survival was all he had time for, his very livelihood during this season leaving zero room for anything else. He had been unable to find a pack that would house his ruthlessness, so if the solitary stag wasn't sleeping, then he was hunting.

The clouds furled overhead, withholding and threatening all at once. His eyes kept darting upwards, regarding the sky suspiciously. Though the weather ever did little to deter the actions of the unprincipled wolf, he did consider the sky falling (in any form) to be an extreme nuisance. In fact, he was more prone to cantankerous behavior when the weather was bad.

Everything around him looked bare and sharp, uninviting to the critical eye but little more than a mild obstacle to the impassive one. Small prey would smartly choose to hide among the hampering nettles, and he would certainly garnish a bounty of thorns going for his quarry, but should he cross the scent of anything, it was going to take more than mere brambles to stop him. The subsequent rumble in his stomach affirmed this.