Sleepy Fox Hollow As fast as you can be, you'll never catch me

the path the obsidian and smoke cloaked st. clair followed along the towering, jagged peaks of the sierra — appearing like fearsome teeth from a titan's lower jawbone — yawns into an open, quiet meadow nestled right into the bosom of the sunspire. pale green gaze studies the dotting of deciduous trees upon his descent into the meadow. for now it seems quaint enough; away from pack borders — as to not arouse suspicions for if any loner was found haunting the territories directly outside of land the consortium claimed the reaper himself would be the first one with teeth bared and guard hairs bristled — and seemingly full of enough small game to ensure he did not go hungry ( if the twining scents of foxes and rabbits were of any indication ).

the sound of digging catches his attention first; ears swiveling in the noises' origin. soon enough, a figure came into view, little more than a silhouette first before the canid shape took colors and his scent — loner, it whispers — to another male. a low chuff is given to announce his presence to the stranger as joaquin watches him flop down in perceived exhaustion ...or perhaps surrender. upon closer inspection, as the st. clair stops a good distance away, the warren mouth takes shape and the mechanics click together like the tumblers of a lock.

pesky creatures, aren't they? the mobster lieutenant inquires with a gesture of his muzzle idly in the direction of the warren mouth the hare had, most presumably, taken shelter in.