Felltree Marsh kris, that does not say womp womp la bomp

Skoll paid no heed to the sun or the moon; when his nose was lifted from the earth, he scanned ahead of him for specific objects. Not the landmark sort that drew the gaze of most; not mountains, not lakes, not great trees. No, the sleek wolf honed in on decaying logs, on flat stones and small round boulders that he could upturn or roll away. He slinked around them, dust billowing around his snout as he plied his nose to the edges that touched the ground. His senses were remarkably sharp, and trained toward minute smells that most wolves would not, could not, ply from their surroundings.

There, beneath a long, wide sheet of bark from an old tree, he caught the scent that he was looking for. He skimmed his nose along the earth until he had pinpointed the source, and in one smooth motion he slipped his nose beneath the bark and flung it aside. Revealed to him, coiled and hissing, was a garter snake. Skoll's fangs flashed and the snake was caught between them, writhing and snapping. It was a fat, long snake; an old female. His gratefulness, his honoring of such a find, was expressed in mercy. He did not toy with the animal, and it spent no more than a half second alive in his teeth before his jaws clamped together and crushed it.

Moments later, there was nothing but a strong musk wreathed around his muzzle to tell of his catch, and his head lifted to scan for the next pantry he might raid.