Wapun Meadow looking to fight, smoking a blunt and a pipe

An unexpected approach interrupts his rage — a child, of all things. The boldness sets him bristling at first, lips peeling back in a brief show of teeth before he abruptly changes his mind. A child — already as big as him, but young, and all alone. The boy smells of pack, but no beloved child of this age would be unaccompanied so far from a pack. Unexpectedly, he sympathizes.
Hey. What are you doing alone out here? He stifles his anger enough to force out the stiff words, still seething with barely-contained emotion but unable to bring himself to vent it on what he sees as a kindred spirit. If anything, he wants to vent his anger a different way now — against the parents of this boy, for allowing him to wander, to be unsupervised and unloved in the middle of a field somewhere far from his home. Where are your parents?