Firestone Hot Springs making faces in the clouds

Rising sun was too bumpy. Sunspire mountains was too jagged. But the Kintla flatlands seemed just right. Now he only needed a bowl of porridge to go along with the declaration of preferable comfort. Or, perhaps the wilderness equivalent.

And looking ahead, nature had just the thing in store for him. Crusty earwax was a minor impedance to the integrity of the conversation yonder, but he still picked up most of it. His features wore dismay and irritation as he approached, limber in his stride. His hips gave swing as he walked, along with his belly, hostage to the rocking of his fat.

"The fuck is wrong with you! You got six teats but no brains! Who taught you to play with perfectly good food! Oh, oh, I know", he took a whiff of the air as he neared, noting a scent of some or other pack. "Obviously, you sniffed as someone took a piss - because you smell like frickin' piss. Is that your idea of a pack? You too stuck up for food? Damned pack wolf youngsters think you know everything! Ignorant piss n' vinegar, all o' ya! You too good for food!? You know, the thing that keeps you alive? And you're still o'er there freakin' piddly-footin' around! Charge the damn thing! What, you waiting for it to invite you to its bacon? CHARGE!"

He raced towards the moose, Maverick, fangs bared, teeth at the ready. Just because it talked didn't make it any less of a walking hot dog stand. He wasn't about to apologize for surviving, either. Wolves gotta eat.