Barrow Fields Barracuda

His stiff, forward-trotting went on for a while, and he was so carnivorously focused ahead of him, that he rarely afforded his side any glances. He didn't expect anything to be there. What creature would approach him in this tenuous moment? A foolhardy one, certainly. It was in one of those few times that he turned his head, that he caught the unexpected swathe of black in his peripheral. His immediate reaction was violent. Warbone whirled, his entire body bristling in an instant as he snapped steel jaws at the imposer.

The space between them lengthened, and the contour and details of the creature before him pieced together like a puzzle until he understood what he was looking at. Both wolves were on edge, but Warbone made no other move towards her. Though his face transitioned quickly from ferocious bastion to impassive glare, there was evidence there of a mistake having been made; though he was not a wolf of apology and he was just as unlikely to admit she had startled him.

Warbone licked his bloody lips, easing their twitching lift so that they descended over his fangs once more, and his shoulders fell marginally as his fur came to flatten once more— the ridge of his spine falling considerably slower. Something about her gave him pause there, his tail switching back and forth as he felt uncertain how to present himself now— too late for a different first impression— but he wouldn't let himself realize what it was about her that he found remarking before snorting at the situation entirely. The Hunter turned stiffly, loping (slower this time) in the direction he had already been traveling.

On some off, unintended whim, he glanced once over his blood-dried shoulder. He faced forward again quickly, unfamiliar with the unbidden want to see another wolf.