Haunted Wood Mummy don’t know daddy’s getting hot at the body shop, doin’ somethin’ unholy.

ridgeback catches wind of her scent before he hears the sound of pawsteps—faint, yes, but sure-footed despite the drag of age that clings to them. he follows, not to crowd her, but because his own hunt brings him near. the woods ahead hold promise, and so does the quiet determination in the trail she leaves behind.

when she comes into view, framed by the shifting light beneath the canopy, ridgeback gives a low chuff. you smell like lakewater and regret, he says with a grin, trotting to close the distance.

he keeps pace beside her, gaze sweeping the underbrush as he speaks. you get anything, or just wrestle a few fish for the thrill? his eyes flick sideways once—sharp, quick—just enough to catch the strain in her gait.