Kildeer Rest don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not

Ice and snow crunched beneath massive paws. The warrior sauntered at a slow pace, eyes trained on the distance. The sky was gloomy and layered in thick, heavy clouds. The air puckered with the scent of a wild tempest, eager to unleash her wrath on the world below. Even the winds carried promises of flurries. Brutus was not concerned. He had weathered the storms of his homeland and had known the destruction that the whiteout would cause. Still, as he ambled across the stretch of flat landscape, Brutus feared that there would be little hope of prey in the new terrain. Already, his ribs were pressing against his flesh uncomfortably. Travel had drained his generous size.

Squawking alerted the lumbering wolf. His saunter came to a slow plod before he stopped. Brutus' broad skull swung toward the sound. A chattering, flapping bird struggled on top of the snow. Brutus eyed the creature with a blank expression. The corner of his mouth drizzled with slobber. He was hungry. An onerous roll of thunder echoed across each rib bone. Brutus snorted and began to pick his way toward the theatrical fowl.