Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

the scent finds him first. moss, rot, something earthy—then man.
raedwulf turns slow, head low, ears forward. brown eyes narrow beneath the crusted wound splitting his snout. an infection had begun to take root, and the wound stung with each breath.
clearly unable to understand the man, raedwulf is left only to the power of observation. a once over, noting his… not-so-impressive stature. he smelt faintly of herbs, and coupled with the way he gawked upon his face…
he noted: weak frame, thick coat, but eyes sharp as flint. not a threat. not prey, either. the man moves suddenly to invade the smaller man’s space and chuffs lowly to his ear, offering his face for inspection.
settling upon haunches like an obedient patient.