Flycatcher Downs the wolf shook his coat and it snowed for days

The white wolf saw himself in the ravening wolf. He himself had been known for such feral savagery by his kin. He understood it. Respected it. But Skwol fed on his hare in a deliberate and slow manner, with a notable level of care. He chewed methodically, and held each bite on his tongue, consuming the rabbit piece by piece without demolishing the carcass. This too had been learned, and this too was done in spite of what his instincts told him. It was during this time that his gold eyes took note of how afflicted the other's body was. Skwol wondered but he was not a wolf to pry.

He had consumed only half the hare when his companion was licking the remnants of his from his face. Skwol could not help the anticipation that coiled in his limbs, the readiness he felt to defend what was left of his meal. But the other wolf made no threat and Skwol took a moment to quickly bury what remained.

The other wolf's snout reached and the white wolf extended his in return and swept his tail amiably from side to side. There was a certain ease, a unique comfort in this manner of greeting. However, it was dampened by the bothersome scents he picked up on. It made the furs on his nape stiffen like quills, but Skwol stepped aside and shook his plush coat out. Snow scattered, but so too did most of his apprehension.

"I am Skwol," he offered.