Qeya River a story of its own,

Rescuing lonely threads!

The smell of meat permeated the air; it had been some time since Mesa had a warm meal and he was eager to suss out where this scent would draw him. 

He had followed the river for a while and hoped to find some fish. Instead — as he failed to sit patiently enough to catch anything — he took the time to soak himself in the cold water and to drink until his belly was fit to burst.

The smell twisted its way between the trees and Mesa followed after it, stealing through the shadows as he went. He paused when he came across the sight of freshly tilled earth and began to sniff along the soil there, shoving his nose at the surface as a truffle pig might. He found the musty scent of hide there, gripped, and tugged free a skin.

There was no meat attached to it, which was frustrating. He then dropped the skin and began to scour the area again, and this led him away from the cache and towards the bloated silhouette of a belly — as well as a small wolf-shape. The wolf did not look healthy to him; she had a mottled coat and short, curled ears. Her size made him think she was young.

As Mesa approached he held the proud posture of dominance; except as he neared her position, he felt his bladder quake, sending a shiver through his hips and tail that briefly weakened his posture. He drew towards the carcass with the full intention of muscling his way past the stranger.