Hoshor Plains the remembering

Fjall’s tailtip wriggled as the strong man approached, meeting him upon the new border. He smiled as he studied the wolf’s proud features, including a dark chin that glistened red in the light, evidence of a meal eaten only seconds before. He could smell the blood of a ground rodent over the man’s plainswept cologne. I was just on a walk, he explained, somehow feeling both irreversibly awkward and anxiously elated. The further I walk, the quieter my thoughts.

He craned his muzzle downward to give the grasses between them a cursory sniff, scenting where Arktos had passed less than two days ago. A wolfish snort of approval soon followed. I see you have decided on your village – pack, he corrected himself. His ears angled forward suddenly, and he peered off into the distance.

There was a faint rumbling – the slow, grazing, milling about of many large animals. What in the Maker’s name is that sound?

The herd was near but not yet in sight.