Dahozhoni Meadow runnin'

When he glances back at the younger stranger, he's eyeing the woods. Vermouth's own eyes narrow, the ruff of fur at his shoulders prickling. The forest doesn't belong to him, of course, but he's a wild wolf in his prime; competitive territoriality is a natural part of his makeup. And he doesn't like the way the other male is looking at it.

"I am," confirms Vermouth, ears thrust over the slope of his dark brow as he takes a step that way, then another and another...

He doesn't give the other wolf a wide berth, instead moving past him close enough they could brush together. Vermouth doesn't want to give any ground and, besides, he's curious what reaction his behavior might elicit. Will the yearling get mouthy, like those Murkwood wolves, or will he actually do something?