Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

his gaze catches her then, and he moves. ah—so her maneuver was unnecessary then. just as easily could she have slid back into the wood, a shadow come and gone unnoticed. but she knows better than to take the risk, not now, not here. 

he grows ever nearer, and she still. there ought to be fear, perhaps, nervousness in the least, but the coyote seems almost apathetic at his approach. it is only when the shades of his pelt become distinct, and she can make out more clearly the angles of his face, that she stands, a silent bid for him to halt. 

her muzzle remains at stiff parallel to the ground, tail angling slightly toward the gentle slope at her rear. carefully, then, each word enunciated with meticulous effort, "you will not hunt me." it is this she seeks to guard against; she has seen her kin run down by wolves, and is ever wary when turning her back to them. she holds some advantage in her appearance; blurred enough to warrant question. confusion over her ancestry will only yield so much good fortune, however, and hunger makes hunters blind.