Heron Lake Plateau got a touch like a thorn

The thinning wolf’s pace slowed at the scent of the marked borders. Drool pooled in his mouth as it cupped the fattened grouse, his teeth holding the prize in a way that did not allow his fangs to penetrate flesh—if he tasted the blood, it was likely the hungry wolf would not be able to stop a feeding frenzy.
 
Scrappy, defiant—a runaway from his youth, Pippin was perhaps the last wolf this pack would ever need to join their packs. But he needed them, and it was a tough pill to swallow for the renegade who had lived his life as a loner since puphood. His golden tail lashed in the air as he tried to calm his nerves, and releasing the gift he had brought for whomever those that lived her deemed it worthy for, the Ostrega tipped his scarred muzzle back, releasing a beckoning cry for someone to meet him at their borders.
 
His song died within moments, and so he stood rigidly still, his form lowered in predation for whoever was to come. The cold winter wind whipped past the angular rogue, his eyes scanning the lands before him as he waited for a verdict.