Duskfire Glacier footprints in the snow

The wolf was roaming in short bursts one way, then another, his tail whisking out behind his tall figure as he tried to make up his mind. He could pass through the territory and keep his path aligned with the elk herd (which would potentially invite aggression from the resident pack if he wasn't quick enough), or he could turn around and find something else to trail (which he had never tried before; the wolf had come from a long line of northern beasts that feasted upon these herds). He was undecided when a dark shape descended upon his position from the hillside.

Upon spotting the wolf and their commanding posture, his back-and-forth antics stopped and the fur of his own spine raised, hackles bristling until the stranger was close enough to speak and be heard. They used a tone that he found mildly threatening but the wolf could not find fault in that, he knew the unspoken laws and was trying his best to avoid a confrontation or a battle. But he was hungry, and the herd had slipped out of his proverbial grasp.

It had been a while since the wolf had to employ his voice, so he did not immediately respond with it - instead, his forequarter bent low as if he were inviting the shadow to come closer, to play a game, and dragged his paws through the snow; an over-the-top bow which transformed in the next instant to the wolf standing tall, but curling his tail low. In the language of the wild, he was saying I am not a threat. And when he was standing again, he shook the snow (and the tension) from his coat.