Firefly Glen The Witching Hour

There is no telling what drew him closer: the blood, the hushed voices, or pure whimsy.

He had rolled in a mound of cold mud earlier in the day. It had smelled strongly like bile of all things, and he carried that smell with him for a while. As it dissipated, he found other things for masking. A yellow patch of snow; some hopeful flower buds, left crushed by the jut of his shoulder; a discarded rabbit burrow which he shoved his face deep within, snapping at the thick air. He was well hidden in the glen.
The smell of sex—or the precursive pheremones in the air, taunting him—was a detour he willingly took. From an alcove of brambles he lurked, cloistering himself behind a wall of nettles. In the summer these vines would be full of blackberries, but for now they were decorated only with thorns. A hunter's blind.
Ahead of him, if he ducked his head a certain way, he could make out their shapes—so he lingered, silent, mouth gaping, and watched as one climbed upon the other.

Cameo. He is very skilled at staying hidden.