a light that never comes

The cinnamon-sprinkled male moved quietly through the woods, ducking and dodging low hanging branches as they whipped at his face and combed through his fur. It was twilight and the shadows were beginning to slowly overwhelm the mountain, enveloping the territory in a chilly blanket he sought to shake off. A nice run through the forest always did his soul some good, especially on days where he found himself brooding and stewing over things out of his control. He had no goal in mind as he ran, massive paws thudding rhythmically against the sodden ground as he went like a shadow. He knew eventually he would have to begin thinking about a trade to master in order to provide the pack with his own special service, and as he drummed through the fading light he found himself wondering what would suit him best.

Another moment, and the thought was gone, his footfalls receding into the quiet of night.