Bramblepoint One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning

[table width=70%][tr][td]

When he returns to the brambly woods, he realizes it's because he missed the smell. The place is aromatic, even in the cold, and Grievous— a bloodthirsty animal by nature— oddly finds himself attracted to the lingering permeation of fruit-scent. He enjoys the perfume, despite knowing he wasn't interested in eating its source.

His own paw pads, bred on much harder, sharper ground than this, are not affected any by the thorns he treads on. Instead, his entire focus has been stolen by the scent of a lone male, and he pursued it with quiet fervor; eager for the social stimulation his kind thrives on. He intended to eventually vie for his place in the ranks of some pack or another, but he had so far pinpointed two prospects within mild proximity of each other, which made him curious to know just how many other groups might be nearby...

This was a glorified detour on his task; unsure if he would come this way again or not.

Made better by the thought he would not spend it alone.

He made sure to stir the bushes as he passes, rounding the thin foliage to present himself fully to the object of his hunt: a tall and dusky canid with eyes bright enough to betray his yet unmet demeanor. Grievous lifted his ears and tail, waving it languidly back and forth, as he pried immediately for the kind of encounter this would be. Who is it that I've found in the asylum of the thornberries? he purrs.

Art thou to be mine friend or foe?

[/td][/tr][/table]