Korr rather liked the North. The air bit back at you, the temperature was comfortable for one with as thick of a pelt as he, and the cold air held scents well. He moved through the snow, his only qualm with the North being that snow was not kind to those with darker coats when it came to hunting. Thus, Korr was skinnier than he would have liked, however hunger was a friend that he had long gotten used to having stick around.
It was hunting for prey that the black stumbled on the rusty female, though more specifically, her scent. For a moment he stilled, nostrils flaring as he took in the scent and cataloged it, before he began padding towards the source, following the scent trail. Soon enough she came into view, and he watched her in silence as she...limped?
Crippled. The black's lips twitched back in the slightest measure of disgust. Crippled. Why was she not granted the mercy of a swift death, rather than the lifelong shame of continued existence? He watched her now with a frown, silver eyes sharp, focused on her as she fretted over something in a dip of the ground. As for what she was puzzling with he could not care, his gaze was focused upon her leg, on the scars.
Korr hoped whatever did it was rotting in a shallow grave, and hoped the imbecile that didn't end her misery was rotting right alongside them.
"Normal Speech"
"Irish Speech"
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