Bramblepoint these scars long have yearned for your tender caress

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It was the noise that first drew his attention— the begrudging crunch of snow beneath a weight it was not yet acclimated to wielding— and with open predation, his body stiffened, arcing towards the sound with the intent to obtain it.

As the other wolf melted into view, however, the plight that was his gnawing hunger became stale on his tongue, and he had to stretch his jaws in a wide yawn so that he might take himself out of the killing mood. His silent stalk turned into a hard saunter; no longer seeing the presumably healthy she-wolf as edible, though the slightly uncoordinated sway of her languid steps seemed to force his curiosity into high gear anyway. His eyes scanned and his nostrils flared, trying to pick up on some obscure injury, but the only thing he could detect was the cold aroma of long-dead fruit— an impression left by the types of trees that grew here and bloomed juicily in the warmer months.

Without the hesitation of a cautious animal, he came near enough to be heard, while maintaining enough of a distance to provide her with the illusion of safety. His ears pressed forward, compensating for the soft dip of her own and silently (unintentionally) presenting himself as the more violent-prone of the two of them. His eyes, just as interested, unabashedly searched the feminine contours of her face.

Spying the winter-weathered stems she holds in her teeth, Grievous tries something neutral— hoping to lure her in; reminding himself that willing prey was always much easier to catch. Plants? he snakes mildly, his voice low and raspy from misuse. Inviting; if one were prone to such dangerous whims. Are they filling? I'm terribly hungry.

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