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

Donovan’s odd lope is a medium to slow pace as he eyes down the trail of prints. Sometimes they fade enough where he’s unable to find them for a meter or two. He retraces his steps and finds it again before continuing onward.

The shewolf is politely trotting next to him. True he’s concentrated, but he’s mediocre, if not decent, at multitasking. So as she opens her pretty mouth to ask whatever questions she surely had, he’s surprised to hear that she’s more curious about his pack than the wound on his leg. Was almost positive she was going to ask about that first. 

He nods once to her, not bothering to look back. His golden hues are reserved for the tracks buried deep within the mud. “It is nice. No, they’re north of here. Good day or so away. I’m training myself.” He hums back. When he finally spins his massive head to give her a look, his eyes dance mischievously. 

He’s training for war. For death. He wants it all so bad.

He’s looking forward just as fast as he looked back. Working up after a few more steps and stopping in his tracks. The sight of the her is before them. A bit higher on the mountain, hidden by miscellaneous shrubbery. He looks to her this time for confirmation that she’s ready before going in.