The forest was far from charming. Kipling's usual way of trudging through the wilderness, released from any feminine elegance in her march, was reduce to tiptoeing among the shrubs. The summer night was thick on her tongue, she could practically sip the forming dew from the air, and yet a chill shot through her back. There was something not quite right about this place that she just couldn't pinpoint. It was fitting then, that while she silently mulled about why she was being such a puss over nothing, she was jolted from her thoughts.
Hairs pricked along her back, Kipling froze at the sound of the haggard howl piercing the still air. It's pain stricken tone and ferocity left her fumbling for some course of action. It sounded like some sort of... death cry? She had told many ghost stories, but she'd never think to find herself in one. Scraping the ground with her forepaw, akin to nervous horse, she scolded herself for being so naive. The dark trees were spookyville sure, but she doubted they were haunted.
Pulling herself back to her senses with more caution than before she edged towards the source of the wicked cry. Kipling though caught the wolf's scent trail long before she saw him, confirming to herself he wasn't a ghoul--but then why all the fuss? Curiosity got the better of her, perhaps a pinch of loneliness as well. But either way, suspicious, she was left peeking over the edge of a log as she caught sight of him in the distance.
He was hard to see, in fact she might have crept over the lump his figure made on the shadowed floor, if it wasn't for the fact Kipling had paused when she caught sight of the lump breathing. Tilting her head from her watching place she observed silently. She couldn't smell blood and he didn't appear quite so mangled, more like tired. What was wrong then? Perhaps he was just mad. In which case, with wide eyes Kipling froze once more. No sudden movements around crazies seemed like good advice to follow for now.