At the prompting of the elder coyote, Max was moving. He was a boy ready to prove himself, and a boy on the brink of true adulthood. His head dropped to fall even with the length of his spine, and his tail bobbed behind him as he loped on. The land was familiar to him, and as was quickly apparent, his pale pelt allowed for him to blend into the snowy terrain. In summer it would be an obvious flaw, but he was a most skilled hunter in winter months such as these.
He traveled northwards, hardly paying attention to the group behind him. All of his focus had turned towards locating scents—once he stopped and dropped his head, sniffing at a patch of snow. From here he turned east, and continued on with his pace. There was an almost mechanical method in his behavior. Inherently he was of a breed that needed work, and needed discipline. This allowed for his singular focus, even though he traveled with the loping and velvet-footed speed of his mother’s blood. Pale eyes traced after invisible signs, tracking the herd through both scent and the soon obvious signs. Faint trails, broken branches, and the more obvious excrements that had frozen quickly. Still, they were close. His tail wagged once, showing such a thing.
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