Broken Boulder Drumbeat

As he proceeded toward the cracked boulder in the distance, Prophet began to pick up some telltale signs of recent wolf activity, primarily in the smell of the land itself. While there were no solid borders laid, an uneasiness nevertheless crept over him the nearer he drew to the boulder, and not because it was a phenomenon all on its own. His nape prickled uncomfortably and he drew to a halt, placing his paws squarely on the ground and scenting the air. Unmistakeable. There had been wolves in these parts recently, and not just one or two, but several more, and for more than a mere moment. The stamp of their paws across the ground was, for now, immortalized in the scent left behind to waft from the ground like an incense for the noses of other canines.

He licked his lips, succumbing a little to the perfectly natural nervousness of the scent of so many non-familial wolves, and was about to turn away from the boulder and his curiosity both when Thuringwethil triggered a slide of his eyes to the side. She startled him as she circled with a noise in her throat and he couldn't help wondering if she was one of the wolves who was frequenting the area of his curious interest. Ever a reasonable wolf, Prophet pressed his tail and ears closer to his core and shrank in on himself, but the briefest nervous flash of tongue was enough to plainly say, I am no threat if you aren't.

"Yours?" Prophet assumed, his voice scarcely above speaking volume and much steadier than he himself felt as he called out to the female, whose fur was deeper pitch than his and whose shape suggested she was no stranger to defending herself. Luckily for him, Prophet was more of a speaker than a fighter.