Blackfoot Forest patron saint of lightening bolts

thick clouds had begun to claim the sky — inch by aching inch — as the sun began it's rapid descent, painting it a myriad of dreary greys. what pastel colors defiantly streak through the cloudbreak are bold and pretty ...if tyr considered such things. he does not. the sky is the sky and he was not trained — for raised is such a domestic term and certainly does not apply to the rigorous lessons of his cubhood — to find things poetic. the descent of the sun setting the horizon ablaze where it defiantly tries to shine out of the choking smoke of clouds has a simplier meaning.

a deeper chill was setting in; he could see it now in the plumes of steam that rise from parted jowls with each exhale he takes. finding shelter; necessary. food? there doesn't appear to be a shortage of woodland critters he can catch ...but he knows many of them will soon take to their burrows and to the trees in the search of warmth.

he crosses the path of a groundhog, follows the still relatively fresh scent trail and makes quick work of the kill. with the still warm corpse pressed against his toes and his muzzle stained with it's blood, tyr drawls his tongue across his jowls, smearing blood along the fur there, surveys his surroundings to deduce that he is not going to be interrupted anytime soon and takes to his meal. intending not to waste time or meat. he does not wish to draw attention to his kill — scavengers were hungry bastards and they will get nothing more than pitiful scraps from him ( he did all the work, h u f f ) — nor does he feel any inclination to share it.

as a lone wolf: he's got to prioritize himself above all others. a strict and sharp contradiction from training: where personal desires were set aside for the good of all. it was an ongoing acclimation from hell tyr thinks with a low, near inaudible snort around his food.