Fox's Glade butcher of men

i am sick and feverish so idek what this post is, lmao

The sakaali raises his head from the water, ears twitch and swiveling atop his skull at approach of footfalls. Icy droplets of water run down his muzzle and land in the plush fur of his maned chest, the longer, wispy tendrils of fur catching and absorbing them with little notice from him. His salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls to collect the last droplets of water and a slight cant of his head towards the left allows him to glimpse over a broad shoulder at the woman as she her footfalls still and she speaks out to him in greeting. He looks back towards the frozen stream for a mere heartbeat before he turns to face her, his glacial gaze skirting over her in a quick assessment. He wears the mask of the jackal now but his training and honed instincts have him always prepared for a fight. She bears a coat of chocolate for the most part, and hazel green eyes; tall but sylph-like in her build. There is an air of unbespoken power to her that her neutral stance does not hide from the observant Ansbjørn: a myriad of scents upon her pelage that makes Drogon think that she’s something more than just a pack member. The scent is familiar. Not to the point that it is forthright but he has smelled it to the east of the Glade and has done his best to give their territory and accordingly their borders a wide berth.

“Hello.” Drogon responds, mimicking her greeting back to her. He is, admittedly, not sure how territorial the wolves of the pack just to the east are of their surrounding territories so the sakaali approaches this with respectful caution, ready to interject that he has no intentions of lingering or causing trouble. Staying still had always been hard for Drogon and perhaps that is why he gravitates towards the trades that require the most physical activity.