Fairspell Meadow Dust off your boots

His stride was lackadaisical and devoid of purpose as he slowed in the meadow. There were endless directions he could choose now, and all of them would no doubt lead to somewhere interesting. He could turn north and head along the mountains, or maybe even through them, and see what sorts of tribes lived among the spires. He could turn west and bypass the foreboding woods in the distance, perhaps even make his way to the domed mount he could just make out from here. Or he could keep walking toward the trees, leaving behind the other trees, to which he turned now.

Macintosh was surprised to see not only trees, but a white-furred wolf among them. From this distance, Dovev's mange and eye colour were completely invisible to Mac, but he could tell the wolf's size was on par with his own. Unlike him, however, Dovev probably was used to using his size. Mac's was mostly just inconvenient. He narrowed his sea green eyes suspiciously and wondered just how long Dovev had been standing there, watching him. The other male was out of earshot, but Macintosh was a wolf, and wolves could speak across miles readily in other ways. His tail dropped neutrally to his hocks and swung lightly, and he rearranged his body to be head-on, with ears planed and head drooped comfortably between his shoulder blades.

There was not a thing about him to suggest that he was intimidating or hostile, and he hoped that that would please Dovev enough to quit staring at him like he was, or even approach if a social mood struck him.