Blackfeather Woods i’ll take a pomegranate martini

( ･ω･)ﾉ

With a deary overcast overhead the world was struck by little light, made eerie, more so, by the descent of the clouds from the mountains. The world was turned greyscale, creating an ideal environment for the ghost of the woods to navigate; save for the fire in his eyes, there was little else to give away that a wolf walked amongst the fog, camouflaged and silent. He was wary, still, on guard at most times as he patrolled the borders. Although those neighbouring his woods had yet to make their presences known once more, he did not forget how close they were—he would not let himself be taken by surprise all over again.

A scent in the air drew him near sooner than the call, pulling the man through the mist as his hackles raised. And as the scent grew, intermingling with that of his urine, he slowed and lifted his head. “Who are you?” he called back, tearing through the last shreds of grey that attempted to hide them from one another. Through the traces of the veil that continued to linger, he could not see the wear of age in the wolf’s expression, only smell his sex and solidarity.