Barrow Fields and drawing lines around my body to recall my place

@Donovan Azura

This part of the coast was odd. The cliffs were already nothing Renard had seen before, but they had seen cliffs, just perhaps not as sweeping. The mounds of earth poking up through the ground were nothing like hills, but they did provide shelter from the wind. It was weaker here, but the damage had already been done. On their haunches in the shade, Renard smoothed the fur on their shoulder with their tongue one last time and pulled a face. Salt.

It wasn't that they found personal grooming so important they had to look impeccable at all times. Their fur just felt very stiff. Give it more exposure and a couple days and they'd be cracking with each step. Not their ideal situation.

They were caught between putting the proverbial foot down and saying enough of that or seeing just how well they could work their ears and nose around it. It might be a challenge. Maybe a fun one. Maybe just irritating. They would try anything once.

...more than once, usually. Until it became more trouble than it was worth. But they should at least attempt to work around the new world they were finding themselves in, even if it did involve more salt than they'd prefer.

Is it okay if I set the time and weather? I like to be descriptive :>
If so the setting is: Evening — around 1800, 70 degrees.

The other male is hunting something — a doe — he has been tracking for about a day now. His steps are languid as he approaches the wild fields of newly reviving grass. Most of the land is barren except for the mounds, or hills, that are within sight at every which way he turns. He hasn’t even laid eyes on this animal yet, for all he knows she could’ve already been taken down by some other animal hours or even days ago. Yet, he finds himself persistent. Motivated to seek this meal that would feed him for days, the wolf-dog moves onward through the hills of this empty landscape.

For a moment, he loses the scent. He doesn’t frustrate so easily, so he continues, leathery nose stuck to the ground and tail high on his hips. He catches it only about ten minutes later, urging himself into a trot he lifts his head and sees the animal and all of her tall legged glory. He begins stalking towards the doe, thinking it would be a better idea to get more concealment by going around a smaller hill. 

Though when he turns the corner he basically comes face to face with another wolf — thing. Literally only about three feet apart, Donovan will admit he finds himself slightly startled and that’s not something that’s bestowed upon him often. So, his golden hues eye up the stranger taking in the interesting shades and colors of their pelt. He doesn’t yet see the others tail, but he can gather hints from his the odd patterns along his fur that he isn’t a wolf — or at least a full one.

Stepping back a bit he hums our a surprised noise. Canary eyes only slightly wider he chuckles. “Evening.” The word comes out smoothly and carries the edge of comedic undertones.

yes of course! lmao good idea...will have to do that in future

With most of the salt removed the curve of their shoulder, Renard turned their attention to the next, nose wrinkled as they continued to comb it out with their tongue. The early evening remained still and quiet, until they heard something that was very distinctly a pawstep, and Renard stopped and raised their head just in time to be nearly run into by someone who, as was immediately apparent, was much bigger than they were.

Not that this was an uncommon thing.

The wolf backed away a step as though surprised, and Renard sized him up as he moved, and it became immediately apparent that --

"Oh. Interesting." Renard smiled, and it was perhaps slightly more genuine than most smiles they had to offer. It had been a long time since they'd seen another wolfdog, much less another wolfdog that shared their particular traits. The tail was a dead giveaway, and that was to say nothing of the brindle striping. "Evening," they returned. "It's been some time since I've seen another wolfdog." Half a year, at least, since they'd last seen their brother.

You’re good! ;>

The other wolf, appearing to also be part dog, smiles at him. Donovan perceives the motion natural enough to be considered real and he continues to offer his own smile back. It’s got more mysterious and teasing than the others. Though the emotions are genuine to the Akita mix, he always gives off a conniving vibe that sometimes makes him seem like he’s up to no good. 

Perhaps sometimes he is, yet the confident way he carries himself makes him out to be a know-it-all or cocky bastard. He used to be a king after all. Now he’s no longer a king, but he continues to hold himself as one. 

With the others gaze, smile, and attention directed on him. The brindle coated wolf-dog tilts his head and only slightly cocks his brow to the stranger. At the words that flow from their mouth — a seemingly enraptured Oh. Interesting. His smirk becomes teasing, his handsome face tilting downwards towards them to listen to their next sentence. Only for them to answer back with a most polite greeting of the day and mention the dog in his blood. To which he cannot deny.

Donovan huffs our a breath through his nose that could be considered a laugh. “Oh?” He hums. “And what would you know about dogs?” He asks more to just give them a hard time, a joking lilt in his voice. “I would say you look like one too then.” He says interested, making a show of tilting his body to the right a bit more to allow his golden eyes to shamelessly gaze at the others curled tail much like his own. 

He would say he’s interested in the other. Interested on where he came from. Interested what dog he could be mixed with. And many other questions. Let alone he finds himself amazed by his pelt he doesn’t often get amazed by other strangers coats, for he thinks he has the best one.

Renard got smoothly to all fours. Not slowly enough as to be too cautious. Not everyone held themselves with the kind of confidence this man carried, but as far as they were concerned it was always a sign. What exactly it was a sign of varied -- for some it was justified, for some it was most certainly not -- but it was never boring.

Indeed, the joking edge to the stranger's question was audible. Renard gave a soft huff of acknowledgement.

"Oh, a fair amount." They curled their tail tighter over their spine, just for appearances, and let it fall back. "Whatever any akita knows, I suspect." They were not as much dog as this man appeared to be, though -- Renard's father had borne the striping as well, but neither they nor their siblings had shown so much as a trace of it on their coats.

"Ah. Excuse my manners." Renard dipped their head. Just a fraction, just so that they could keep their eyes on the other wolfdog. "Renard." The word hung there, an unspoken request for a name in exchange.

He takes no mind to the stranger standing, hardly notices it in fact. He continues to allow the other to take up his attention. As they speak about them being part dog and they show off the curl of their tail, Donovan’s own curled appendage does the same unconsciously. Then both his brows go skyward when he says the word Akita. I’m a fucking Akita. He almost gasps internally. Now more questions swirl around his head. He’s never met one like himself or his mother. He wonders where they could be from. If that maybe, just maybe, themselves or their parents might somehow know each other. He’s knows it a trivial, childish thought but it plagues him nonetheless. 

He doesn’t say anything yet, but he’s sure the astonishment is written all over his face at finding another of his kind. So the other wolf-dog carries on the conversation onto a road Donovan drove right past — names. 

The larger male gathers himself enough to put his previous smile back on his face. “Donovan Azura.” He drawls in his masculine, yet smooth voice. 
“Pleasure.” He hums with a no-good smile and faux, innocent tilt of his head.

Then he immediately goes back to the topic at hand. Something he finds more important than he did previously. “Where are you from? Which of your parents was an Akita? Mother or father?” He urges in an unhurried, but child-like fascination. Eager to know if the possibility of knowing someone from his past life is here.

One canine was much the same as the other in Renard's opinion, though it was nice to run into one, occasionally, who was also clearly part dog. They had not had much occasion to run into anyone who was difficult about it, but their father had always, ah, kept an iron grip when it came to that sort of thing. Their mentor had shit-talked it more than once, but Renard suspected that was just a motivational thing. No ill will. They had other things to worry about when he was around, like not being knocked on their ass.

Which was to say. Not a big deal to them. But even as Renard gave their name they saw the astonishment on the other wolfdog's face so it was clearly a big deal to someone.

"Further north. Up where it's mostly ice and pine trees." And spring certainly wasn't this warm. "If you're looking for specifics, I'm afraid I don't have much to offer, beyond hearing it called Ivvavik."

The other question was easier. "Father. He looks similar to you, actually." Renard skimmed their eyes over the man's coat again. "None of us got the stripes, though." They clicked their tongue. "A shame. I always thought they were nice."

He nods as he listens to him. His mood only slightly souring when he mentions being from up north. Donovan doesn’t even know which way The Abbey could even be. He was conked out before arriving here and he has little to no memory of the happenings before he woke up here. Of course, he corrects himself. It’s not their fault that Donovan’s going through what he’s going through with his not-to-existent pack. Still, the other has no specifics to share. Or none relative to him at least.

At the mention of their father bearing the same markings as him he chuckles. “Ah.” He exclaims easily. “My mother was the dog half.” He shares, catches the others eyes fleetingly looking at his pelt. Then Donovan puts on a shit-eating grin and preens. “Isn’t it?” He boasts referencing the pattern of stripes that go every which way song his body.

Then all of a sudden, the male remembers why he’s even over here. The doe. With an internal sigh, already assuming the doe is long gone, he steps a few paces over; its a enough to see the spot she’d been moments before. To his luck she’s only a couple meters off from where he originally found her. Grazing softly on grass and any shrubbery that sits near by, she goes about her merry business. 

Turning to face them once more he smiles easily. “Wanna hunt this deer with me?” He asks shamelessly with a curt nod in the animals direction.

If Ivvavik meant anything to this other wolfdog, he didn't show it. Though Renard was hardly expecting it to, and had little to say about it other than that it was cold and snowy. Akitas came from humans, their grandmother's stories said. Their grandmother's stories also said humans were everywhere and Renard's concern for the intricacies of lineage (how pretentious was that) barely even extended to their family in the first place.

Renard could go on dropping complements for quite a while -- Donovan seemed pleased by them -- but any more thought to the topic was derailed. The smaller wolfdog craned their head around to follow Donovan's gaze, right to the -- a doe, grazing peacefully nearby. Wow. They'd totally missed that, huh?

Renard gave their shoulder one last cursory lick -- still no better -- and smiled. They were more than willing to go along with however he intended to approach the hunt. "Lead the way."

Hunt roll here. Hunt will be Successful!

Donovan is satisfied by their answer. A determined smirk reveals itself and he already stalking off to peer over the shoulder of the hill they’re hidden behind. He begins creeping forward, eyes  on the prize. 

“Go to the left and get her eyes on you. I’ll flank her on the right.” He says softly, quietly. It’s not a harsh order, merely a suggestion.

It was a shame there was so little in the way of actual cover out here. Probably none of that was willing to put up with all the salt either and Renard could hardly blame it. It was evening, though, and dark enough that it somewhat made up for the lack, and at Donovan's prompting they slid out from behind the mound and forward, seeking out the deer where it grazed on the cropped grass.

And luckily, with those instructions, it should be much easier to be seen than to sneak around, even at dusk.

Renard eased around to the left, one paw in front of the other, close to the ground and quiet, still half obscured by the tufted grass. For a long few moments, the animal didn't notice; a quirk of the gusting wind, perhaps, the rattle of the grass against itself, the howl of the breeze around the heaps of soil.

Trying to be seen when one was so used to everything to the contrary was an awkward endeavor, but as Donovan moved around to the right as he'd suggested, Renard eased forward, adjusting a step just so to crunch down on the grass underfoot. The deer lifted its head and looked directly at them, froze in preparation to bolt, and Renard was already springing in its direction, hoping to send it fleeing closer to the other wolfdog hopefully lying in wait.

As the other goes the opposite direction Donovan briefly follows their movement. Soon enough they’re moving in unison towards the long legged animal. It stands there innocently, unaware of the two that stalk her. They come ever so close, that is until she stops. Donovan goes deathly still as her head turns towards then and those eccentric, black doe eyes widen. Her large ears that were previously swiveling every which way now stand at attention straight in their direction.

In a matter of seconds, the other wolf-dog is already sprinting forth. The deer is fast but hopefully they’re both faster. So Donovan lies in wait for the deer to come closer to him.  As she nears, he thrusts himself into action. Kicking up dirt and grass alike he’s off like a bullet, trying his best to cut it off.
His paws skid at the sharp turn the doe is able to perform as the end. His mouth opens up and snaps at her hind legs as he runs behind her. Massive paws thumping onto the ground with each step and a determination in his eyes and face. The bite misses and he finds himself growling at himself in frustration. His lungs are beginning to burn. He has size and strength. He’s not horrible with speed but his cardio is not the best. So he urges himself forward with a fleeting attempting at pushing himself even harder. It works, for this time he latched powerful jaws onto her hind leg. And comes to a dead stop. He just holds her there as she struggles against him, hurting herself more in return. He waits for the other to grab a hold of her as well.

Renard kept their jaws open, aimed for a leg, but before they could get close enough to even consider biting down the animal had changed from wide-eyed shock to a flat-out run, hooves kicking up loose dirt and debris in their wake, silhouette just visible outlined against the dimming sky. They kept running, sprinting over the short-cropped grass, lips peeled back, and from what little brush there was left to the fields Donovan emerged like a striking snake, a flash of golden eyes and white teeth.

The doe wheeled around faster than Renard would have thought possible, a sharp turn that had the brindle man’s teeth clicking shut on empty air behind it. It bolted away from Donovan, taking that one precious second to do so, and Renard was still moving, paws skimming the dirt as they built to top speed –

and as he took off in pursuit as well Renard gained, closer and closer until they had drawn nearly level with its shoulder. Their muscles burned already with the fury of the pace, but that hardly mattered now, and behind them Donovan was running, paws thudding against the ground, and when Renard finally turned, angled their muzzle towards its neck with mouth agape and teeth bared –

It came to a dead stop just moments before Renard’s teeth caught its throat, and the change in momentum sent them swinging in a wild arc up before its front legs, their teeth caught so tightly around its throat that when they were jerked to a stop it was to fur and skin and sinew mostly given way. Blood poured out over Renard’s muzzle, hot and wet and metallic as they hung there, and the deer’s frantic struggles quickly began to weaken.

When he comes to the dead stop, lowering his haunches closer to the ground to gain more leverage and prevent the deer from trying to move any further. He smirks through the does leg in his mouth and his glistening eyes flash to Renard proudly. He basically heard skin ripping and ligaments tears as he came to the that heart stopping halt. Hell, the lack of movement almost caused the other to rip the deers throat out in about half a seconds times. The abundance of blood doesn’t sneak by Donovan and he wouldn’t be lying if the other being coated in blood doesn’t intrigue him.

Eventually he take eyes off of the other and raises his haunches once more and spreads his legs out in a stabler position. He wastes no time in throwing his body into a vicious shake. His muscles flex and shift beneath his coat and his eyes are locked into where he bites the deer, awaiting the leg to be torn off. He even takes a few steps back attempting to encourage the other to play some tug of war. He loves that game, especially when whatever they’re tugging used to be alive.

Renard hung there for a moment longer, forepaws suspended in the air and blood soaking into the salt-stiff fur of their chin and neck, before the deer finally bent like a branch snapping in the wind and, still doing its best to stand, folded to the ground.

To see the life leaving something – this close, jaws around its neck, blood flooding their mouth – licking at their muzzle around the fur and flesh caught between their teeth, the wolfdog shifted their stance and gripped, feeling the doe’s pulse grow slower, weaker, closer and closer to stopping completely.

But there was little need to speed the process when there was barely anything left of the doe’s neck to hold together. Instead, Renard slid a curious violet gaze back over to their hunting partner, saw him already looking back with teeth buried in an already near-motionless hind leg, and him offered a toothy smile dark with blood around the animal’s throat.

It held for a few moments, then passed, and the man planted his legs apart and threw his body back, snapping the deer’s leg back and forth. For a long moment Renard just blinked at him, because it – maybe too much judgment on their part, to assume that he wouldn’t be eager to play tug of war over the remains –

Not that they were judging, though! It had been so long since they’d just…played a game. Renard gave one wag of their curled tail, adjusted their grip, planted their paws in turn to mirror Donovan’s stance, and lurched backwards in turn, growling playfully as they yanked the body back to them.

For a split few moments Donovan notices the others amethyst hues on him. The look of What are you doing? Could be found there. Or at least that’s what he thought was going through their head. Still he doesn’t mind the mildly concerned face that looks back to him, rather it encourages the brindle male.

Eventually it seems like they’ve realized what Donovan is poking at and the fleeting wag of the wolf-dog’s curled tail almost makes his own swipe fitfully at his hips as well. A smirk appears on his maw, or as much as it could while he chews and pulls on the deceased animals leg. 
As they mirror his own readied stance Donovan gets ready to pull. Yet, they beat him to it. They growl as they pull back against Donovan’s grip and he can’t help but do the same. Throwing himself into another vicious shake as claws dig into the grass and dirt to attempt and skirt back against the others impressive strength.

Only a few seconds later, Donovan crunches his jaws down one last time and as he finds himself pulling, the leg separates itself from the rest of its body. Taking a few steps back he viciously shakes one more time and releases. The leg goes flying a solid few feet into the air about six feet away and the male chuckles darkly. He stands there panting, blackened tongue falling out of his maw, flat and dripping bloodied drool. 

He turns to meet the others gaze shamelessly. “That’s was fun.” He comments with a quick swipe of his tongue on his whiskers and teeth.

Forelimbs planted in the dirt, Renard kept tugging, something competitive rearing back in their chest. Their grip tightened and Donovan pulled them forward – no surprise, he was bigger, after all – dragging both Renard and the deer’s body forwards before he started shaking. The wolfdog followed suit for a few moments, but they had the disadvantage of holding an entire neck which was the farthest thing from easy to break; the force was enough to set Renard’s teeth practically rattling in their mouth, they were certainly being rattled around enough, but before they could reach the point of “drop it and give up” something CRUNCHED –

For half a second, now devoid of the laser focus brought on by hunting and killing something, Renard’s thoughts went only along the lines, absurdly, of what the hell did I just break, until the other wolfdog stumbled back with the deer’s entire back leg in his teeth and shook that instead (it made Renard a little dizzy watching, by now) until it flew through the air and landed among a tuft of grass nearby.

Renard unhooked their teeth from around the deer’s shredded neck – if the animal wasn’t dead already, that had certainly done it – and laughed.

“Yes.” The toothy smile flickered back across their lips. “Though you hardly needed my help if you can hold an entire deer in place.” They licked at the blood drying on their own muzzle – more than the other wolfdog, it looked like they were in for another round of grooming but that was their own fault – and dipped their head to begin stripping the ragged flesh off the deer’s throat. Kept an ear out, just in case.

“You know,” they said, at length. “I told you a little of my home. You never did tell me of yours.” A grin. "Not from around here, either?"

As he stands there panting, saliva dripping in stringy glops from the drooping parts of his black lips to land on the grass beneath them. 

The other replied to him with a laugh of their own and pearly whites being flashed his way in a smile. Donovan tilts his head and raises brows giving out an easy going expression as he listens to them speak. All Donovan has to give is a pffft noise in nonchalant disbelief and waves them off with a quick movement of a massive paw. “I easily outweigh her. I believe she is an older doe too.” He comments, gaze drifting down to inspect her. “She was fairly weak; to me at least. Perhaps to you too.” He shrugs, a smirk adorning his face when the other attempts licking the blood off his muzzle. Easily and shamelessly following the motion the bridled male watches them go down for a bite before they sound out their curiosity of his previous home.

His expression becomes almost pensive, eyes unreadable for just a moment. He hums a quick sound of acceptance. “You’re not wrong.” He admits to the other wolf-dog. Then he begins, “Got thrown here by humans — two-legs. After I got betrayed by a pack mate that blew the whistle on us.” Now shreds of anger flutter through his expressions and his bright gold eyes seem darker. “She brought a whole pack of humans right to us and — boom — they fucking shot all of us except her and I.” His voice raises a fair few octaves in volume when he accentuates the word boom, then goes back to normal. “There goes my whole pack. The one I’d been raised in, the one I took over from my father, gone in an hours time.” He visibly tries to calm himself down from his self induced hostile state. He sighs and his eyes flutter closed for only a second before opening once more and he sighs. “We were called the Saints of the Dying Light. We were a very powerful, wealthy, and prideful pack. Ruled over it for two years. Even with getting my rank challenged by some stupid young wolves who thought they were the shit.” At the last part he laughs. “Oh well, I’m here now. Trying to rebuild y’ know?” He finishes easily, yellow meeting violet. The last sentence said oddly normal, as if they‘re talking about the weather or something.

“Ouch.” Smiling, Renard slanted their head to the side. “And to think, I was almost proud of catching her.”

Renard had heard more than one…fascinating story of someone’s origins. Not even just limited to wolves from the Teekons, either. Sure, everything seemed crazy when your frame of reference was just getting up and waltzing away one day. Practically a rite of passage; get out without being spotted, then you were free to make your choice. And Renard had been bored. And it had led them right here.

This seemed, uh…particularly interesting, even by those standards.

Renard let him talk. It was clear he still wasn’t over it just by the volume, that wasn’t even counting the undisguised anger in his expression – though they didn’t think they would be either. Much as they’d found most of their family beyond infuriating, family was obligated to be infuriating, and it didn’t mean you’d suffer them getting killed and just brush it off. Especially not by humans.

“So you’re looking to reform them, then.” Not here, at least not yet– even with the wind and salt, Renard thought they would have noticed the mark of a forming pack. And…hm. The wolfdog paused. There had been one curious omission – “And the one who betrayed you? What happened to her?”

The other wolf stays involved by continuously sating their curiosity of his past and present. Their first question is a simple one the second, not so much. 

Donovan just gazes back to them as he answers. “I am. In the forest southwest of here that sits between two mountains. Where the trees drip blood.” He describes his new home loosely and just a tad bit ominously. 

Then as he moves on, he wills himself to not get irritated by just thinking about her. Hell, if he saw her now he would squeeze her head between his jaws until it pops and all he is left with is a mess of blood and gore. He shakes himself from the imagery of his fucked up imagination. 

He laughs bitterly. “Sasha was her name. Purebred dog too. Can’t remember exactly what the humans called what she was but it doesn’t really matter anyway. I don’t know what happened to her. She probably still works for the humans, doing to other what she did to me.” He shrugs, face pensive and riddled with irritation. Then he meets the others eyes. “She was pregnant with my pups when she did all this too. Now isn’t that fucked up.” He vents. A laugh that is not in any way humorous comes out again.

He sighs. “Anyway, you don’t need to hear my pussy ass vent. Appreciate though.” He chuckles more genuinely this time as he shakes his head side to side. He doesn’t believe how he acts about it. Donovan believes he’s being a big ol’ baby about it. He hates showing weak emotions to others, but he can’t help the irritation that crosses him when he thinks about it.

Donovan gave his response with ominousness around all the right words, but Renard couldn’t help a bark of laughter at the concept. “There’s a forest here that bleeds?” The man didn’t seem the type to just tell them a complete lie, but it seemed implausible, at the very least. “Might be worth a visit, then.” Just to indulge their curiosity. They were not expecting to find trees that actually dripped blood.

The story, though, that got more fascinating the longer it went on.

Not something Renard could relate to. Another reason why they wouldn’t be caught dead leading a thing – too much potential for it all to go wrong. Much easier to be the one causing the problems. “She got away, I take it. Kids or not, you don’t let someone like that go on purpose.”

“Oh, we’ve all got to talk sometime. You can’t go wrong with sharing a little anger.” Renard echoed the other wolfdog’s chuckle as he came to the end of his tale, and took another strip of flesh from the cooling deer lying between them. “I find that and fighting are the best way to make friends. Or take someone’s measure.”

At Renard first sentence about the trees that drip blood Donovan chuckles quietly. Making a mental note to inform the other that it’s more of a colorful explanation of its reality: ruby hued sap. Yet, they don’t seem to be too interested as they continue and at their next words spoken Donovan hums and nods in agreement. If he had a chance he would’ve killed her and his first litter of pups. Everyone else could get fucked, he would’ve done it whether others stood up for her or not. Killed everyone of them too if he needed.

Anyway, as Renard shakes Donovan out of his stupor of irritation, he listens to them talk once more. This time Donovan shrugs. “I don’t like to share usually. It just pisses me off.” He says nonchalantly with only a touch of anger this time. 

The brindled male watches the other crane their head to rip off a strip of deer meat and begins gnawing at it. At their mention of making friends by sharing pasts or sparing Donovan could agree. Yet, he doesn’t find himself having too many of those these days. Hell, even back then. Sure he was a charismatic leader, but he lead with a firm hand to his warriors and a steel one regarding other packs. Other packs even sent pups or young adults to be trained by them. They were always successful and he would only do this for their allies.

At that, he seems pensive for only a moment and then allows his maw to stretch into a devious smirk, molding his handsome face around it. “I suppose you’re not wrong, Renard. I would definitely be wanting a spar from you one day.” He almost yells charismatically, voice gruff and loose.

post to wrap this up! i will get something posted in ravensblood forest asap :)

Renard nodded in response. Reliving that kind of scenario, without the ability to do anything about it…yes, they could see how that might piss someone off. They didn’t need a direct request to know when someone was over that kind of a conversation.

At the other wolfdog’s next words, Renard grinned. “I would be glad to provide one. The forest southwest of here, you said?” They glanced back over their shoulder to the points of the mountain range they had been following behind them. “That’s on my way. I might have to meet you there. We’ll see if your fighting skills are equal to your hunting ones,” their grin quirked a little wider, almost teasing, at the words.

Perhaps their path would continue to Sagtannet as they’d intended. Perhaps not. For now, they settled closer to the deer to take their portion before going on their way. The night had almost settled completely over the coast, but Renard still felt a little uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping out in such an open field.

Donnie’s exit unless stopped. ;) we can archive on your next post or this one. I’m g with whatever!

Donovan’s smile grows as the other speaks. They’re eager for a spar and Donovan can’t help but admit that he is too. So as they confirm the location of his new made home he chuckles. They even decide its best to tease him, Donovan has been easy with them so he’s not surprised they’ve become comfortable enough to jest with the massive, brindled male.

As they finish their sentence Donovan nods with a cocky smirk, surprised to see them give one back. It’s even accompanied with a teasing lilt to their tone and he raises a brow and allows a bark of laughter to erupt past his lips. “Yes, I look forward to it. I guess I’ll have to prove myself to you then. I expect the same.” He says expectantly with a wink. “I’ll see you there, Renard.” He says teasingly, with a hint of deviousness weaves into it.

With that, Donovan gives them one last expectant look and turns his back. Graciously allowing the other to keep the deer. He’ll have no problem hunting something else if her has to.