Dawnlark Plains Hinterlands

The path he took around the Taiga was long, snaking in and around the claimed territories, avoiding the ire of the local populations by virtue of being nothing but a ghost. He left little trace behind him; any kill he felled was left for scavengers, or devoured entirely. The life he lived demanded much of his body and soul, but he gave little thought to the impact it had on his psyche aside from the need to feed, and the desire to discover the strength of the packs surrounding his small hovel. A heavily-trodden trail of deer tracks caught his attention earlier that night, and only today did his feet land on the snow-kissed loam of the Dawnlark Plains. 

Ears twisted forward, then flattened as he drifted across the fields. Old snow from early in the season, only now uncovered by the warming season, crunched loudly underfoot as he wandered. But if he expected an uneventful day ruminating, he was soon proven wrong. A new scent dragged his mind away from the trail, and he paused with his tail at half mast. Milky brown eyes scanned his surroundings, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of movement. His nose flared and his heart hammered in his ears; was he trespassing?

No, but the figure warranted a follow. So he wordlessly altered his course and set off after the stranger with his tail hanging between his hocks in a clearly neutral manner.