Cricket Creek Bog quiet with music (do not ask the music)

maybe a SMC wolf? aw!

taking note of the blunt-nosed grasshoppers and clear ponds, klaus silently decided he enjoyed this place. his aimless heat-seeking path, while bereft of the closeness his secretly coveted as he reentered the social facets of society (therefore why he relinquished them), often found him in curious parts of the land which he realized he didn't know at all.

Auburn is kind of of an SMC wolf lolol

Auburn had left the shelter of the Sweep for the day, feeling well enough to seek out new territory for once, though she did not go far. And she did not go into the Copse. She still did not exactly know where she stood with them all, though she hoped that tipping Meerkat off that Skipjack had wandered away by himself had put her in the pack's good graces.

Today she found herself in the Bog that lined the Copse. She had to say that she didn't particularly care for bogs, smelly and fetid as they were, but this one was different from most. It was beautiful and cool here, and she could see this being a nice place to escape the summer heat when it came. As it was, it was only early in the season and the temperatures had not yet risen above their cool spring ways.

She was studying a frog from a distance when the wind changed direction and brought with it the scent of unfamiliar wolf. Immediately on edge, she stayed crouched low, glancing around herself, unsure of what to do now. The only wolves she'd met in a long time were from the Copse, and those she had known before had not been kind to her. She didn't relish meeting anyone new.

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if klaus and auburn were socializing he would have given her credit, a pleasant summering spot maybe, but he wasn’t a man for the combined implications of sun, mud, and general boggy wetness.

a great place to set up an entomological study though—a flight of dragonflies for research would bode well here, but institutional review board for ethical entomology practices would disagree with his methods.

in his assessment, a hill of red in his perfunctory line of sight—whether a picked breathing corpse or a charnel house last-minute escapee, he stands imposingly in the distance to let whatever animal know he’s more than an unwilling participant of 'the truman show.'