The beast is finally moving, lumbering, crashing through the underbrush with bellows of rage. It is clear it doesn't want to go and when its head lowers again, this time he aims for a cheek, an ear, anything to get the message through that fighting them off is a bad idea, better to keep moving.
While sure, they could probably pull the beast down, it seemed a waste to him, better to save such a boon for the winter. It wouldn't go too far, and prey was still plentiful. Perhaps if it had been fragile or sick, but it wasn't. He wouldn't mind if it lived to fight another day.
But then again, perhaps that is the dog in him, as he uses his pronged antlers to prod at the moose's flanks. Almost there.
