Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

A smirk of any degree was a rare thing to elicit from the rugged, ashen behemoth before her, and yet they were never to her surprise. She rarely offered any shred of humour outside the company of her sole comrade, and while he often showed his particular brand of appreciation for these, they were primarily for her own amusement. Neither of them delighted in small-talk, however, so there was at least a modicum of necessity to be found in her dry dialogue. In this case, it was an admission of the reason she’d barrelled into him only a moment previously.

He allowed her affectionate greeting and returned with his, then prompted an explanation of her recent whereabouts. She turned and began to walk back in the direction of the forest’s edge when a corner of her lips pulled back just enough to allow the briefest of glimpses at a row of gleaming white teeth before concealing them again. They were not, of course, meant for Kierkegaard, but for the twinge of annoyance at the hunger in her belly and the reason it was there.

Coyotes, she said with a razor’s edge to her voice in only the short of her explanation. Two decided they would follow and interfere with a hunt. Needless to say, she’d chased them away and viciously gave them a show of the double-edged sword of tailing and subsequently pissing off a very capable predator. She hadn’t been injured because neither of them had chosen to fight over the option to flee.

Moz looked to Kierkegaard and down at his right front paw at that moment. Having been set back slightly the last time they had hunted together, she wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for more of the same. With or without him she would need to hunt again, and soon.