Blackfeather Woods give me a crown of thorns

Whilst those that could hold their own were common within the woods, those that excelled with the art of tracking were now few. There were no wolves for the male to track down, no one that he felt too terribly pressed—at the moment—to locate and be rid of. Prey, on the other hand, was always welcomed and necessary; there were mouths to be fed, children in need of nutrients, and so he could not deny them the chance of receiving just that. “Do you track herds or small game?” he asked next, curious. Although, honestly, the answer did not much matter. At the end of the day, a tracker was a tracker, no matter their preferred target.