Little Goat Mountain Are we faded

He stalked around, his legs stiff and his body demanding that the earth yield to him her secrets. She revealed some things: goats frequented here, and small mountain prey had buried themselves deep into the smallest rock crevices imaginable. A wolf had passed through here, but the scent of it was over a week old, and so faint that he didn't linger on the marked spot for long. He turned to see if the young wolf had joined his banquet, and sure enough she was near the kill, hesitating in some way, for some reason. He considered that she wasn't hungry, and that his hospitality towards another lone wolf had been wasted—but as he drew nearer in the sweeping, languid way in which he loped, he could smell on her the cloying scent of a pack.

He had half a mind to chase her away at that point, but her words completely withdrew the emotion. "If I had set a trap, you would already know," he said after an overly long pause, during which he had scrutinized her for a clue that she was about to spring a trap. He blinked, seemingly satisfied with something he didn't see, and he sat down suddenly, letting his forepaws slide forward until he was a positioned sphinx. His hooded eyes regarded her as much as he regarded everything else, showing no great amount of concern but hardly missing anything anyway.

Superficially, Warbone liked her red fur. It was a warm difference from the cold surroundings; like being able to safely gaze at the sun. "You wander into supposed traps quite easily, little fox. What would your loved ones think of your jeopardous proclivity for seeking Death?" he asked, joking—possibly. His deadpan accent was difficult to read.