Little Goat Mountain the red string of fate tugs at my heart

The brindled male finds himself near the southern reaches of the Sunspire Mountains. Cutting across the valley south of Redsand Canyon, Donovan continues to climb the strenuous terrain for hours upon hours. He absentmindedly explores a few caves on the way — one of his favorite hobbies — and next thing he knows, he’s probably a days journey away from his beloved sands of crimson. 

His paws hurt, his muscles ache, and the lacerations on his left forearm sting with hurtful lightening bolts of pain with every step he takes, but the pain is pleasant, sought out. He’s training himself. Hasn’t trained himself like this is a while. What is he training for? War. It’s a nasty thing and he has to be as tough as possible to withstand it.

At the moment though, he’s pooped. He just wants to take a small breather, perhaps get a drink of water wherever it may be. This time, he finds something more interesting than water — another wolf. 

He’s at the peak of a hill as he gazes towards her. Canary orbs watch her curiously. His nose litters about the air and his lungs attempt to inhale any scent of hers or anything else in the area. He doesn’t dwell on it much longer. He’s sauntering down to meet the shewolf. A casual smile on his handsome, more recently scarred face. 

His massive form approaches and surely she sees him, he’s quite hard to miss. As his large paws thump against the earth and his muscles flex beneath a striped pelt.

“Hey there.” He greets casually. “Come here often?” He plays the stereotypical one liner smoothly as he raises cream brows. His eyes rival the sun in brightness as he dances his eyes around her beautifully colored pelt before attempting to meet her eyes once more.