Deepwood Weald [m] lxix. love, hunt me down

though kjalarr's intentions when he entered the weald that morning had been to keep an eye on the territories that were close to the bay, and the herds that occupied them: it is a siren's song that ensnares him and takes him on winged paws to a scent that strikes him as familiar; notable because he had crossed paths with her recently.

he had, had no intentions to sire children this year, his focus upon founding the fledgling bay — but primal instincts are deeper than intention; and kjalarr is but a man like any other.

his base nature cannot be ignored, no matter how hard he tried. and he put in an effort; diverting his path several times only to be lulled back until he slows his approach upon sighting her silhouette with his good eye.

a low chuff announces his presence even as he slows to a stiff halt; black leathery nostrils flaring as he drinks in the scents: finding himself relieved that there is no other masculine scents around despite that either way it was not his business.