Walkin' around singing the blues in bright red Jimmy Choos

Warthog did not range far from the ragged little band of her fellows, mismatched and odd-sized as they were. But she followed Dogmeat, and where he went she would be at his side. The scent of water had drawn the dog from where she lay shivering in a half-dug hollow, and she gathered her large lumbering form up to seek it out.

Shuddering at the cold, from which her thin fur did not yet protect her, the large Rottweiler skulked as quietly as she could through the snow, instinct guiding her steps. And yet, when the water sparkled in sight, Warthog drew to a sudden halt, eyes narrowed on the almost catlike delicacy of the young wolf bending at its edge.

Her appearance was a mangle of muscle, and drool, and teeth; the dog immediately hated the offspring of her forbearers, this lanky and beautiful thing, as if she herself were naught more than an ugly, twisted parody.

As befitting her breed, Warthog lunged into a silent, deadly run, jowls skinning back from her teeth. She did not bark, nor did she growl; the dog's vocals were silent, but her mouth watered for the spurt of blood and the crack of bone.