Larksong Grotto oh right

The lanky wolf trots amidst the trees, his fresh kill of an emaciated raccoon clenched between bloodstained jaws. His nostrils are full of blood-smell, yet they are still able to detect other scents, two of which have captured his interest. One is the scent of water. He is hungry to be sure, but his thirst overpowers the hunger and he cannot fathom eating the raccoon without first moistening his dry mouth. 

The second scent he follows is that of another canine, a wolfess. The thought of a social encounter both excites and frightens him. His kind are unpredictable, but that is simply the way of things and uncertainty is no excuse to remain reclusive. 

Vegas at last approaches the stream, its shores glistening in broken patches of ice. He places himself a short distance from the she-wolf, and with a half glance in her direction drops the raccoon at his paws. Cobalt eyes turn away from her as he lowers his maw to the frigid water and begins to lap up a hearty drink.