Hoshor Plains I want to make a creature of you.

The wind eddied the fat clouds overhead, whipped at the field's tall grass, and dragged through his own dense coat as it gusted to-and-fro, but the wolf was not bothered by it. This wind was warm. It was like a hot breath breathing down his neck—a far cry different from the mild and dry north from where he had originated. He stalked along without any attention paid to the weather; he didn't look up when the scent of oncoming rain began to fill the air, nor when the sky broke and began to weep above him. The sky wasn't crying so much as it was spitting; the wolf only lifted his head from the sullen alignment with his shoulders when he heard the sound of hooves—and in that split second, he spotted the mighty wild horses of the plains, but merely watched them.