Lost Creek Hollow Those Who Wander

>:3c

The question jumps out of nowhere; with his focus on his own careless joy and the squawking and ruffled feathers, Dakota hardly noticed the stranger. He slows to a halt, crosshairs on the speaker, already bemused by the use of darling—and oh, hello, ain’t this one a sight for sore eyes?

A soft brown coat, groomed well as any spoiled sled champ, covers the body of a wild wolf on… what are those gangly features, some type of hound? If Dakota could smell he might recognize he’s not looking at a wolfdog at all, but he can’t, and he doesn’t. Instead he flashes the stranger a grin of his own, as if fate’s dropped a long-lost cousin dead center on a platter.

His smile is genuine. Is theirs?

“Singin’ in the rain, darling.” There’s a smirk with that last word, a friendly tease, prying. That’s an awfully bold way to greet a stranger, and Dakota thinks he’s got a better read on their character from that alone than any proportional gleaning—smug, self-assured. Provocative. The snide comment on this “fine” afternoon is the tip of the iceberg. Other canines might take less kindly to such a greeting. And it steers Dakota into a deep curiosity, one he reaches at tentatively with his own welcome. Can they take what they’re dishing?

With that he turns on his heel and strides towards (who he assumes is) his fellow mutt, tail waving by his haunches. Dakota’s no creep (or so he holds himself), and he’ll pause before invading a personal bubble—but life on a tether gives him a smaller boundary than most. He’s not too careful, there. Whether the approach ends with a circle or a play bow depends on reception. “Yourself? Lovely day for a romp.”