Deepwood Weald Cry

The nights grew longer, though the daytimes still warmed hot and humid like summertime some days, and he was unable to ignore the subtle shifts nature was making around him even beyond that. The autumn approached, with time ticking immeasurably forward, him and his home within it.

Since he did not often take changes with grace, even these gentle ones inspired restlessness to buzz in the back of his mind. It was small still, so he could reign it constructively into tracking prey in the lowlands, but even that motive trickled off into a broader scheme when drizzles kept threatening his trails, anyway. He was soon covering the valley some, then on to more by the next hour. Eventually the tangles of the Weald shadowed his path, and a strange call from within drew him in when no longer did pack boundaries deny him here either. Instead, petrichor, and wet plants.. which was fine by him, so he went onward.

Though his route could not cut clean to the source, he found his way, and delved deeper quietly. Maybe he was getting closer--so he hoped, as he listened for more.