Dahozhoni Meadow runnin'

He drinks his fill from the icy stream, his cunning eyes staring straight across the arid meadow. When his belly begins to ache, Vermouth raises his head. He absently licks the stray droplets from his chops as his snout tilts upward. His nostrils twitch as he combs the air.

Wolves reside to the east. He can smell them on the breath of winter air that blusters past, stinging his face and making his dull eyes water. He studies the scents, sussing out vague details, then summarily ignores their existence.

Vermouth blinks and strides forward with his ears tall, chest thrust forward and tail rigid over the slope of his sable spine. This prepotent posture certainly doesn't relent when he spots a younger male ahead; if anything, he puffs up even more.