Razorback Ridge Put me back in my grave

Mojag enjoyed his time on the road, especially in moments where he encountered strangers. This was the antithesis of how many lone wolves behaved: rather than avoidant and suspicious due to the otherness often felt by those without a home, Mojag was curious and thrilled whenever his path crossed with another. He had learned to be attentive from afar; so when he spotted the dark-capped face of a stranger further up the mountain's crags, he stayed where he was and kept watch... At first.

The scent of fox was a distinctive one. Not only that, but it seemed pervasive to the whole of the wilds. Mojag had found the same scent across the lowlands and hillside, closer to his home territories; and while he wasn't exactly surprised by the presence of the pests, he was annoyed, because it was one of his least favorite smells. Did they really need to piss on everything? Apparently yes.

He was lost in thought about this disdain towards the vermin, to the point that he forgot to monitor the stranger—and so when he caught sight of the silver figure again, it was to witness the squealing death of a small, red body. Good riddance, he figured—and began his approach.

I greet you! He calls out, having picked up the habit of this phrase from Moonglow. Waving his tail behind himself like a banner of friendship, he did not approach too quickly, and gave the stranger ample time to tell him off, if he didn't want the company.

A good kill. Do you have plans for it? He smiled, motioning to the fox that lay dead beneath the stranger's claws. Perhaps a trade could be made, here.