low-key doing a lookie

The slender form, always so elegant and svelte since he'd achieved his full growth, was now bordering on bony as he stumbled through the strange new land he'd found himself in. He'd not been able to stop to feed himself as much as his youthful form needed in his need to rush away from the lands of his childhood - lingering in a place where all fangs would be turned against him on sight wouldn't have been the smart thing to do. He was ill-groomed too. His ash-and-flame coat was ruffled and dirty, not at all his preferred state. The young male normally was, if anything, a little vain about his appearance, so if he hadn't been so exhausted he'd have been horrified to realize the state he was in. He could only give thanks to Loki for the clever god's favor for him having made it this far to begin with. He'd followed a strange, red-eyed crow that he was certain had been sent by his patron god to guide him, but had lost track of the bird over a day ago before he'd stumbled into this particular land. The scent of blood here cramped his stomach and brought saliva to the half-starved wolf's mouth, though being wolf-scent-blood his very unconscious reaction to it made him feel sick. It was maddening, and Ivar had to stop, head lowered and panting, to fight the queasiness so he wouldn't sick up. Not that he had anything in his aching belly to lose anyway. At least it gave a moment of rest to his painful forepaws.