Swiftcurrent Creek dogs howling at the moon

He snorted with impatience when he was interrupted by his leader’s call and a very slight glare crossed his face as he ultimately decided to oblige her. As interested as he’d been when she’d greeted them at the borders, his sharp focus being broken by outside influence was abrading during all of the five seconds it took him to stash the weasel he’d only just plucked on exit from its burrow. He concealed the carcass, lifted his leg to piss across the surrounding area, and then sprung off at an easy lope.

He sauntered lackadaisically towards her when he found her sitting quite comfortably in a clearing. Despite his offhand manner, he eluded the bits of underbrush and tree tendrils that reached out to trip him up with matchless and nearly feline grace. It was one of those inexplicable Redefin traits he’d inherited, right along with the propensity for being dragged across the many wilds by wanderlust and his wildly scruffy fur that would never for as long as he would live just lie flat, forever accenting his unabashed and otherwise startling good-looks.

Had you called for the “Red One” you’d have been left sitting here all by yourself, he practically purred, as he came to stop just beyond her reach, his yellow eyes gleaming with absolute roguery. His distaste for her call had disappeared the moment he saw her waiting, so seemingly patient.