Ghost Lion Crag hawkmoon

Hades' hound watched, his acid eyes glowing, as the she-wolf like foxfire, and welling with the unborn, turned to face him without any discernible sign of needed concern. The Tartok lowered his skull, the hunch of craggy shoulders becoming fiercely prominent of his silhouette as he prowled carefully forward— a panther in motion. If anything, he seemed more wary of her, than she was of him.

She smelled of many more than just herself, and he was aware that he carried no recent scent of companionship of his own, making it impossible to even bluff if he had wanted such a thing. He had no intention of stirring any pack pots, but he yearned for social interaction anyway, and it was easy for the massive cur to turn his predatory nature into something more welcoming.

Keeping his head low was the best he could do for such a small wolf. He walked forward without menace— although his curiosity could appear as such given his nefarious countenance— and boldly sought to find her limits for his presence.