Fox's Glade and i'm backsliding

sympathy from alamar for the cheek fur. his own a curly set that ranged long, alongside the lengthy furs of his neck—great for warmth, not so much for everything else. the wind is fortunately bothering the grey yearling instead of he, for he stands against it in a posture that simply makes it fan out, appearing more or less like a giant tangle of hair. maybe cryptids do exist and one’s name is alamar.
yeah, he hums in agreement—voice drowned by the storm. well, could you… walk with me? keep me out of your pack territory and no one will chomp on me. hopefully, but who knows. maybe they’ll think he’s some awful creature trying to siren away their members. alamar would much rather scamper off than cause trouble.