Fox's Glade five six seven eight

Oh, he stank! The boy's tail had not left his rump since the incident, and it was with tears in his eyes that the chubby four-month-old ran for the edge of the territory, horribly embarrassed and shamed. He had passed over it and kept going, the chubby cub having to stop repeatedly to gasp for breath, before dissolving into a quivering mess a short distance from the border, wallowing in self-pity. How cruel was the world, to hurt him in this way. And even though it was himself who had put the distance between himself and his family, he was quickly convinced that they hated him because of his horrid, horrid smell. They hated him! They wanted him to stay away! 

Unbeknownst to him, his scent was a beacon, signalling some foolish or young creature that had gotten in the way of a skunk. He never spared much energy towards careful thought, and now was no different, as he sniffled sadly without a thought to the outside world.

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Vaati avoids the putrid scent at first, that is, before he smells something else mixed in the potent stink, the scent of a child where it does not belong. It is curious that he does, barely a yearling found wandering in the middle of no man's land with not a clue the dangers that lurk around the corner. He glances around, looking for any sign that the child's guardians roam nearby, for he will not risk approaching if the act would become a reason to kill him; he bears already the consequence of acting where he did not think irreversibly upon his face. The child stank; the outcome of an unsavory encounter with a skunk, blocking out the origins of its pack scent. It is nearly impossible to distinguish where the child came from, where it belongs, and Vaati pauses on that thought. He sees only opportunity when he looks upon the small, quivering child, and considers for a moment the possibility of simply taking the boy.  Or killing him. Perhaps he will; there is none to stop him and motive to do so is abundant for curiosity's sake. Stepping softly, he approaches head down — unthreateningly for the moment — but despite that, a simple gaze upon his face is sure to strike fear in any child. The scar that mutilates his visage is one that gives him a monstrous appearance, something estranged and terrible that he truly is.

Miserable sniffling was interrupted by the recognition, somewhere in his less than bright mind, that there was another here. He glances up and instantly recoils, the wolf's face is split by an unsightly scar. Starting slowly, but rising in pitch and volume, a squeal bursts from his lungs, eyes huge. But when, after a moment, the beast does not attack him, and rather approaches unthreateningly, Cyron musters up the brief courage to say, haltingly, "You - you have a ouchie"  The proclamation is half-reassurance, this is no monster, but instead a wolf with an unsightly scar. But even this statement, said aloud, fails to reassure him totally, and he starts to allow another screaming squeal to build and fall from his muzzle as he rapidly scuttles backward, tripping over himself, terror in his gaze. Cyron was never the bravest, or the brightest, of his littermates.

He smirks only slightly when the child points out his scar, referring to it as something much less scary than it actually is. For a second he admires the child's bravery, until it screeches suddenly and sends itself tumbling backward over his own feet. Vaati merely has to step a single step to catch up to the flailing child, and swiftly leans down and grabs him by the scruff, picking him up in his jaws. He has no set plan for what he intends to do with the child beyond bring him to the dark woods, knowing that this is someone's son, and that someone was bound to come looking for him. However, the likelihood of the boy's guardians tracking him down was slim to none, and Vaati thinks smugly, they should never have let the child out of their sight in the first place. Vaati would not, if he had children of his own just yet. He walks swiftly and with purpose in the direction of Blackfeather Woods, holding the squirming child delicately in his teeth; he holds no sign of aggression beyond attentive caution and keeps it that way to ensure the child does not fuss anymore than it already has.

The boy sniffles, then wails, hanging limply in the grip of the male. He sobs until he is expended, and then hope fills the numb void that he is; adults are friendly and good, and when has an adult ever led him wrong? Never! Perhaps this boy took a fall, and hurt himself, and is not returning him to his momma, as adults do when he wanders too far.  Shame creeps in from running from this adult, how bad of him! It does not strike the boy that Vaati is walking an awfully long time, and that his home lies behind him, after a time, he simply falls asleep, secure in the knowledge that he will wake in his mother's den.