Barrow Fields and drawing lines around my body to recall my place

It was a shame there was so little in the way of actual cover out here. Probably none of that was willing to put up with all the salt either and Renard could hardly blame it. It was evening, though, and dark enough that it somewhat made up for the lack, and at Donovan's prompting they slid out from behind the mound and forward, seeking out the deer where it grazed on the cropped grass.

And luckily, with those instructions, it should be much easier to be seen than to sneak around, even at dusk.

Renard eased around to the left, one paw in front of the other, close to the ground and quiet, still half obscured by the tufted grass. For a long few moments, the animal didn't notice; a quirk of the gusting wind, perhaps, the rattle of the grass against itself, the howl of the breeze around the heaps of soil.

Trying to be seen when one was so used to everything to the contrary was an awkward endeavor, but as Donovan moved around to the right as he'd suggested, Renard eased forward, adjusting a step just so to crunch down on the grass underfoot. The deer lifted its head and looked directly at them, froze in preparation to bolt, and Renard was already springing in its direction, hoping to send it fleeing closer to the other wolfdog hopefully lying in wait.