Botanist Lvl. 1

The sunlight that streams through the trees paints dappled fragments of brilliant peachy golds along the damask patterned tiny wolfs' form. He wanders without real aim, pastel gaze occasionally sweeping to and fro. He memorizes the paths, the patterns. The gentle breeze that rolls through the grass and the way the wind winds its' fingers through the tangled locks of the willows. A few delicate leaves catch on the breeze and roll in wild tumbling circles across his line of sight, and for a moment, the pink blush of his nose follows them. What an absolutely picturesque day! The crisp breath of autumn has finally touched the land and that meant winter's grasp wasn't too far. Which meant... "Well fuck this," he scowls, muttered under his breath as dainty paws pick and pluck through the over-tall grasses,"Where the actual fuck am I supposed to get anything around here? Hey!" He snaps, harshly startling a poor squirrel who was minding it's own business,"The FUCK do you think you're doing there? Give me that!" With an impressive leap, he clamors up the bark of the willow and the squirrel, shrieking in terror, tries to scuttle away. Alas, to no avail. His jaws sink into squirrel flesh and he rapidly worries his head, causing the death shriek to warble into a somewhat comical squeek as a pile of acorns come tumbling out of a hole that is...far too small for them to fit.  

Like a shark or a gator, the primadonna simply tosses his head back and allows the squirrel remnants to slither down his gullet. ....Well, perhaps the snack may cure some of the hanger. Does it? He sits, thinking on it for a moment as his pallid eyes remain somewhat loosely focused on the acorns.

....Hm. No, still annoyed. Regardless, he begins to gather the acorns for some purpose--whatever it is, he does not say. But they aren't alone in his pile of new things-- a series of late-blooming flowers, autumnal colors and petals all aligned in a haphazard pile seem to be his current occupation. His expression softens just slightly, whiskers curling inwards as his brows lightly pinch.  Perhaps he could gather enough to make valid wound salves to last through the winter... But, then again, maybe he couldn't.