image modified from here
His approach slowed as she stopped moving, and even at a distance he could see something was bothering her. There was a shadow hanging over her, something he did not understand and could not grasp. Emotionally stunted as he was, Max was only capable of recognizing emotions and not grasping them as someone else might. This made him for poor company when it came to matters of the heart, so prone as he was to conniptions.
The languid position she took suggested to him that whatever angst plagued her had passed. This seemed fitting to him, who let go of things lacking in worth, and he did not think sorrow was such a thing to hold onto. Yellow eyes peered up at her face from where he sat, admiring the fine line of her jaw and the jagged scars that crossed her face. Max had no scars from battle; he had fought wolves before, and he had watched one die, but he was not a true warrior yet.
“I was looking to hunt,” he told her, and sat. One hind leg rose to scratch as his side, dislodging a chunk of pale fur in the process. The Malamute blood, while it gave him remarkable size, had damned him with a coat that shed heavily twice a year. “What are you doing?” This wasn’t a patrol, obviously—it would be silly for her to take one in her two-legged shape.
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