caravan blues

She was hungry. But of course, she was. Wolves tended to fatten up during the fall to make the winter less unbearable. Morgan, however, liked the colder months. Her thicker coat was a blessing during this less than ideal time. It didn’t excuse her from trying to fatten up though. She was just as much common as anyone else was in the Boreas. Trudging through the thick sea of trees, she’d wander aimlessly. Or so it seemed. She was looking for a scent to follow. Picking up the smell of a small deer herd, she’d lift her head to call out for anyone else to join her. Usually, she could hunt alone, but right now she needed to bring down something larger than a fawn. Something that she could drag back to the makeshift rogue den she was using for storage later. Her call was only for one other person. Pack wolf or not, they could aid her.

Morgan didn’t know who would show up, but she was confident someone would. She kept away from the herd, though could see the telltale signs of them on the small trail. Scat, hoof marks, broken branches, and twigs. She was on the right track. Trailing after them, she’d slow her pace until she could smell the scent of the other wolf that maybe would be joining her. She only hoped the other was open to her suggestions and worked well with her. She wasn’t going to argue when her belly was empty, and her mind wandered wearily. She was liable to snap someone’s head off and chase her prospective hunting partner away. Though her frustration would be fully directed to the herd and hopefully one big, fat doe. Stags were too risky with the antlers and the extra muscle.

Still, she waited for someone to come along. Her paws worked both nervously and frustratingly on the earth below.

ooc; 316 / 2500 words "speech"

HTML & Art by BIRD