he led her through with his nose pinned to the woodland floors; scents infiltrating each crevice, setting off fumes for him to follow, to hone. it was not long that after he surged over a log to reveal them, then:
there, through the undergrowth was a doe and her fawn. he turned toward her, broadened muscles catching the faintlight of the sun trickling through the leaves above. scarred, his jaw ticked over those periwinkle eyes; was she as capable as he imagined her to be?
he grumbled once more, pleasure, or confirmation, that the fawn would be their target. perhaps the mother.
he moved into position to strike. his elk charm would not go hungry, and she would even have a pelt for her wetu.