Bitterroot Valley if you could shine brighter, I’d be the dark

The thudding of his own paws was loud and methodical in Lars’ ears as he loped onwards, the biting chill of the morning breeze ruffling his charcoal pelt as he flanked to the left the little herd, eyes narrow as he sought an opening. They would definitely spot him now, if not for the stark contrast he made against the pale landscape then for his panting that grew steadily laboured by the minute. He had the admit, despite how exhausted he knew he’d be after, the thrill of the hunt had always exhilarated the mountain boy. And today was no different...until a shout and a second drumming of paws caused his ears to ram back and his step to falter - only slightly - but it was enough for him to miss the nervous stomps, and then the panicked fleeing of the closest doe - and suddenly Lars had to decide now.

He didn’t know who the hell interrupted his hunt, nor what the hell they were so vocal about (the wind was too strong in his ears, he would say), but the roamer could only shake his head in confusion and bolt in the direction his quarry had fled.

Luckily he caught up easily enough, his breath now heaving in his chest - it was obvious he was tiring - and positioned himself towards the doe’s right flank in readiness to land a hit.