Wapun Meadow rosewater & bloodstains

It beat in his blood, too. The rat-a-tat of a snare drum behind the much louder boom of a timpani in his bloodline, for he was primarily wolf, but there was a little coyote there, always. Enough to slim up his features into a likeness of Tadec, but thicker, more whole. A little more like Cicero, perhaps, than the vagabond father of Merrick.
This coyote was starving. That was the only explanation for the risk it took, darting toward the carrion left by the birds in spite of the wolves. Surely it imagined it was faster than them, and more cunning. The Trickster was a wily beast, but Aventus and Merrick both rode the wave of incensed dissatisfaction with Polaris' escape.
When the hapless little cousin made a move for the carrion, Aventus flew across the snow with a silent snarl peeled across his lips. The coyote knew better than to stand its ground, so it flitted away like a little bird on a swift wind, but remained close. It wouldn't give up an easy meal just like that.
Aventus slowed, anticipating that his father might come from the other side.