Firefly Ravine lieder eines fahrenden gesellen

Instead of nursing a presumably bruised ego, Vigilante had taken instead to the proactive responsibility of plotting. At first he had examined the coast with a wide girth, finding the edges of the grotto pack and at length carrying a torch for the appearance of the grotto gargoyle. He looked, but did not find, unaware that the brute wouldn't often stray far from his swelling pot of riches. It wasn't too long before his patience had worn thin and the marauder ambled away from the subduing, brine-winds, in an effort to clear his head.

It was fate that he would catch the scent of the pack he pined for far and away from its fortress, nearing the pit of a ravine. He was familiar with such trenches, having been born in one himself, but he paid little mind to the territory ahead, and focused instead on the wolf that had drawn him this way.

It was a male, not the first, but just as  impressive. This one was young and soot-furred, with pale cinders ruffling his nape and an ease to his gait that belied confidence. Vigilante, who preferred the ungentle company of other ungentle males, made to find out if he approached a wolf he could interact with or with a wolf who'd be too intimidated to play. He chuffed to give away his position, and then held back—with an evenhanded posture and a nose quivering interestedly—to first see how the wolf would react to his presence.