Bramblepoint bleak

Darkmoon cursed as the thorns caught at his coat, wincing when one would reach right down to the skin. His fur was sticky and stained with burst berries that heralded the changing of the seasons and cooling of the weather. It was not berries he had a taste for, however; he was interested in something more filling.

There was the faint sound of breaking twigs in the distance, and curiousity piqued, Darkmoon set about to seek out its cause. He was upwind, and the scent of whatever was making the din was lost to him, but it was surely something sizeable. It was difficult going, however, to seek out the source of the noise. The undergrowth grew thicker as he drew closer, and he was forced to backtrack and change his course multiple times.
    It was at a particularly dense section that Darkmoon lost all sense of direction, and spinning to free himself of the brambles he stumbled upon the young wolf. Blinking in surprise, he quickly put two and two together. "So it was you making that racket."