Sun Mote Copse i just pulled up to the studio and laid it on the line

Someone quickly replies, informing him he’s on his way. Bushtit thinks it’s a guy, anyway, based on the tenor of his call. His lips pull into a smile as he shifts his weight, patiently waiting for the wolf to appear. He hopes the stranger’s as friendly as he sounds, so maybe there’s a chance he’ll be able to nab the skin after all—that is, if nobody threw it out.

Moments later, a figure approaches from the nearby tree line. He’s the color of clay, the dark shadows underneath his eyes giving him a careworn sort of look. He’s middling in height and slenderer than the slightly stocky Bushtit. Something about his posture makes the Redhawk question his gender, though everything else about him says male.

Hey! I’m Bushtit and, believe it or not, I was born here, he introduces, dark eyes bright. I came back to snoop, not realizing there might be a new pack here, he adds, head tilting to indicate his curiosity about the wolves who’ve laid claim to the place.