Sleepy Fox Hollow As fast as you can be, you'll never catch me

@Joaquin

Lokie had spent the night in the muddy grounds of Fishblight Mire. The fish were plentiful, and he had needed to stock up his belly on food. He had tried to wash the mud off as best he could, but little dry patches still covered his back. There hadn't been anywhere he could roll that he wouldn't have just gotten more mud on him, so he didn't even bother. He figured he would find another lake at some point along his travels.

He had traversed a mountain, and now stood at the eastern edge of a valley. He hadn't really been thinking about hunting, but the small hare that perked up in the grasses was just too tantalizing to pass up. He could stuff his stomach some more. After all, who knew when his next meal would be. His ears flattened and his body lowered as he took a few steps forward when the hare dipped it's head to feed. Paused when it came back up. Repeat. He felt he was within distance, and when the hare dipped it's head again, he bolted towards it. It of course, bolted, too, and ran in a zig-zag fashion. Lokie was lean, and matched it turn for turn. Suddenly, it disappeared under ground, and Lokie slid to a stop at the entrance of the hole, his muzzle automatically going after the hare. It was long gone, however. Still, he scratched at the ground in a half-hearted attempt to dig the lost meal out. His efforts would be futile, and after a few moments, he stopped and laid down, his sides heaving with exertion.

the path the obsidian and smoke cloaked st. clair followed along the towering, jagged peaks of the sierra — appearing like fearsome teeth from a titan's lower jawbone — yawns into an open, quiet meadow nestled right into the bosom of the sunspire. pale green gaze studies the dotting of deciduous trees upon his descent into the meadow. for now it seems quaint enough; away from pack borders — as to not arouse suspicions for if any loner was found haunting the territories directly outside of land the consortium claimed the reaper himself would be the first one with teeth bared and guard hairs bristled — and seemingly full of enough small game to ensure he did not go hungry ( if the twining scents of foxes and rabbits were of any indication ).

the sound of digging catches his attention first; ears swiveling in the noises' origin. soon enough, a figure came into view, little more than a silhouette first before the canid shape took colors and his scent — loner, it whispers — to another male. a low chuff is given to announce his presence to the stranger as joaquin watches him flop down in perceived exhaustion ...or perhaps surrender. upon closer inspection, as the st. clair stops a good distance away, the warren mouth takes shape and the mechanics click together like the tumblers of a lock.

pesky creatures, aren't they? the mobster lieutenant inquires with a gesture of his muzzle idly in the direction of the warren mouth the hare had, most presumably, taken shelter in.

His eyes darted to the hole as he willed the hare to come back out. Of course, it wouldn't. But, he could dream. One leg lifted and thumped the ground in playful frustration. While he wasn't starving due to his fishing last night, he had still wanted it. Maybe if he laid still long enough, it would perceive safeness and come back out. Ha, he thought. As if he could lay still that long. 

A chuff caught his attention, and his head whirled until his eyes settled on another wolf. His ears perked as words were spoken, and Lokie's tail wagged in friendliness. Sure are! he exclaimed with a chuckle. It was rare that Lokie was ever caught in a bad mood, regardless of the circumstances. 

The hare forgotten, he sat up and faced the stranger, tail thumping the ground. I'm Lokie, he announced. What's your name? he asked, not thinking twice about being intrusive. If anyone showed just a bare hint of friendliness, Lokie was all over it.

the stranger, a muddled combination of tans, blacks and browns is the embodiment of friendliness. to the point where joaquin, the opposite as he clings to his 'chiseled from stone' disposition, finds it near stifling. suffocating, even. pale green gaze studies the stranger as his tail beats against the earth; overly friendly if the glacial lieutenant was to go off first impression. lokie, the stranger identifies himself as and upon the next breath the stranger takes comes the seek of his own name.

for a breadth of a moment, the st. clair contemplates before romeo. in his smoky reticence, like the thrum of a hellhound's sigh. the apodo falls from his lips. in these wilds what name he is known by is let to his own whim ...and he has so many to choose from.

The other male seemed stoic, but Lokie didn't mind. He knew not many wolves matched his energy, and it had never bothered him. Lokie grinned when he received the name, Nice to meet you, Romeo, he replied, never thinking the male could be lying. 

He stood, abandoning the hare's hole, and walked towards Romeo. Do you know a wolf named Connor? He's my best friend, and I'm looking for him. We were part of a pack on Wheeling Gull Isle, but I'm not sure if they are still there. Do you know if they are? I hope they are, though I don't like being surrounded by water. I like lakes, but that water is different. It's always moving. Kinda creepy, he ended, grinning as he came to a stop in front of the other male, tail still wagging.

a soft grunt of returning sentiment was all that joaquin offers lokie; knowing that he should indulge in pleasantries but not really in the mood for it at the moment. so much for romeo. joaquin watches as the other male — lokie, he reminds himself — draws nearer inquiring about a wolf named connor and whether he knew anyone by that name. without prompt lokie launches into an explanation of their relationship, inquiring then about a pack on some place called wheeling gull isle — the name nearly inspires some strange cross between a giggle and a snort which joaquin is quick to stifle.

it sounds as if it's all in one breath; rapid fire questioning that leaves the st. clair trying to organize and address them as appropriately as he can. being so new to these wilds leaves him at a distinct disadvantage he quickly realizes and dislikes. i've never heard of a place called wheeling gull isle nor anyone by the name of connor, he breaks the news, perhaps not as gently as he could have. my apologizes. he does offer with a small, regretful dip of his head. as for the 'water' lokie mentions — joaquin assumes he means the sea — the st. clair really has nothing to offer having no actual opinion on it himself.