In the span of recent weeks and months away from the pack and many of his duties, Jefferson inevitably rediscovered his love for independence and solitude; there was a certain peace in the silence of nature, something he'd forgotten to appreciate in all the business of leading a pack, but was grateful to have found it once more. The songs of the birds, oblivious to the trials of the world below them, lightened his heart to an unspoken degree; his mood was altogether lifted by the warmth of the air, the sunshine, and the rush of leafy canopies, and yet his expression was as stolid and unchanging as ever. Even his scars seemed to sag.
A foreign scent stenched the fresh Phoenix Valley air, and he was obliged to follow it to its source. Three-legged, one-eyed, and grumpy, Jefferson limped along after the smell hanging in the air, only recognizing it as Crimson Dreams not long before finding the fresh white female lingering not far from his borders. "Who are you?" he said briskly, tone devoid of anger but necessarily to-the-point. "Why are you so close to Phoenix Valley land?"
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