Whitefish River but even if we won't admit it to ourselves

Hell yeah! Alduin is always grumpy too lmao ;)

The hellhound moves closer inland, taking the occasional dip into the shallows whitefish river as he goes. He prefers to break up his scent when he travels every so often. Call him paranoid, but it’s worked for him so far. Anyone he’s come across hasn’t suspected him of being in a pack and he prefers to keep it that way. 

So with his pelt sticking up and many different directions and still damp from his most recent dip, he shakes himself off once more and continues on his way. Aimless wandering he calls it — to occupy his mind and allow him to know these lands better.

Only he’s distracted when he sees a figure up ahead. Bloody eyes zero in on them and his nostrils flare in an attempt to take in their scent on the breeze. They have size, but besides that he cannot tell their gender from this distance — seems Alduin’s the one up wind. He does smell one thing: the scent trail of potential prey. Perhaps they’re hunting. He thinks absentmindedly. 

He moves forward at a languid pace, clearly not trying to sneak up on them, but rather make his appearance well known. His stance is both comfortable, yet confident. Walking with a languid swagger, tail bobbing on his hip as he moves forward. His handsome, but scarred, face is settled in a light scowl, but that’s just his usual resting bitch face.

“Out hunting?” He asks in that rasping baritone — both gravelly and intimidating in its own way. Although it comes out mostly dry, perhaps with a touch of a teasing underline.