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Speed was one of Charles' few strengths, but he didn't know the terrain here very well yet, and he felt hazed, confused and intimidated by the scents that lingered around the Saints' territory that day, so he never did quite catch her. Sometimes he could make a bit of a stretch and run, but most of the time he'd get caught off-guard by some piece of territory or another; a loose rock, a tree that he'd awkwardly bump into.

They came to a grassy patch at least. Charles prepared to set in a chase now that his paws finally found ground where he had some oversight, but before he could make a sprint she stopped, turned towards him and lowered her front to the ground.

While the language was universal, Charles had never really learned it very much. He always thought it was, like, a Leta thing to do. One of her quirks. He was starkly reminded of his dead best friend but shook his head to shake it off. Time to make an impression. Charles was adept at running (both in the metaphorical and real sense) so it didn't take long for his breathing to steady again and he bounced over to his new pack mate with a woof and approached her head-on. Charles jumped up and tried to playfully nip at her face during his landing.

He wanted to seem strong and confident in her eyes; ironically, not because of the scent, which kept him continually on edge and frightened him, but because he wanted to make a good first impression.