Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

And this time, he sees her—at first nothing more than a blip on the radar, a tangle of shifting shadows like smoke in a breeze. But it took shape when his gaze moved to follow it, and it was distinctly canine. He drew in a breath as though to ascertain anything at all from what's around him, but it was all damp and dank, and wild; his jaw set evenly, his gaze unwavering, and his path stayed its course.

She watched him and he watched her, but why?

The bud and bloom of curiosity is but one distraction he sorely needed.

He whittled gently at the distance between them, his steps measured precise. There is something decidedly wolfish and yet not—she is either very young or very petite, or simply masked well from her perch that he did not bother to decide which had taken hold. But there is something more to her than just that. Ears too big, he thought, so perhaps a coyote even if her muzzle is every bit as angular as his own.

With a gentle tilt of his head, his curiosity speaks for itself—what is it you seek?