Dragoncrest Cliffs many are the strange chances of the world

With each new day that dawned, Portia's litter grew closer. He was starting to wonder how soon, exactly, and was getting anxious about it already--mostly for her sake as well as his own sense of actually knowing afterward. In return, with another litter in their home impending, potentially very soon, he was imbued with a certain, more tense sort of watchfulness; as if suspicious neighbors, an exiled son, and Wildfire's brood already among them were not enough.

Well south in their redwoods, his patrol came to an abrupt stop when ahead, he heard something coming through, and fast. Lifting his head and jogging closer, quicker, he spotted a young deer darting for the cover of the trees; with it still moving quickly, he couldn't quite see it through the foliage yet, but his nose was keying in to the distinct tang brought with scent of blood with a new sort of interest here.

Initially torn between following it--because the possibility of an easy kill was not one to turn his nose up--and finding out what had helped do this (if any beast were even to blame), the wocha paused at the crossroads a moment to listen.. and nothing sounded, not then. He gave a little huff of a sigh and eventually turned towards direction the deer went fleeing into, and kicked his own gait up to a trot as he went onward to try to catch sight of it again. He did not smell anything immediately on the winds, but a bad feeling remained lurking somewhere well below--and easy to attribute to a paranoia brought on by how close his pups were to being born, too; he would try to make this quick and circle back, doing both for his own peace of mind.