Hushed Willows [m] high on the hill where the foxhorns blow

Boone paces ahead of his companions, tongue flicking from his lips in animalistic inspection. As far as he knew, there were no claims; no wolven scents upon this land, save for his own family and ones threaded in distant wilds.
His back presses to the trunk of a spruce, old bark pinching the skin beneath his fur. The first of many scent claims; instinct alone guided him. He'd hardly even heard the words from his wife until he wrought over them once, twice, thrice in his mind; a family.
He'd always longed for children of his own, to look down at a little squinty-eyed dumpling and see himself. To provide, to be the father that he had missed, the father that had been ripped from his boyish hands. You're right, he cracks a sheepish grin that says everything he could not before he continues onward.