Fox's Glade ab iniquitate [m]ea

A man there was.

Not much of one, perhaps. Scrappy and lanky, a real tramp of a guy, stocky but somehow missing the muscle of his herding and protection roots in favor of the sighthound muscles that seemed to not exist at all. His rangy face was dark in the night, all that stood out being the odd mismatch of his mint and silver eyes, and the red that grew like smoldering embers across his cheeks, chest and shoulders, his stomach, and crept towards his haunches from his tail.

Tonight, Rey prowled.

For the scent of the season had called to him from his shackle of lonely thought, and thus, he came, loping steadily, his nose to the floor.