The stranger doesn’t move from his position even as Foxtail moves toward him, and she tilts her dark head curiously, her golden eyes narrowed. The young wolf is not exceptionally dominant in nature, yet she is unsure how to respond to this stranger that gives her no sign of his intentions other than his low, soothing tone of voice. She keeps moving forward, her long legs losing some of their stiffness of motion as her white-tipped tail begins to slowly wag. He doesn’t seem aggressive, and so inspired no aggression in Foxtail, despite her initial wariness at his near-silent approach.

“Foxtail,” she says, raising her head to sniff curiously at the air. There are no other wolves nearby – Rio is not with a pack then – and she lowers her gaze once again to rest on the russet male. Closer, it’s easier to tell his color in the silver moonlight, the same dark red hue that tints her own coat in bright sunlight. He’s darker than Tybalt and smaller, and Foxtail is, overall, mostly unimpressed. This is not unusual for the young she-wolf, not since the death of her sister; nothing impresses her anymore. Perhaps before Bramble had died, before they’ found Tybalt, she’d have liked this stranger. He is scarred, but not overly so, and even Foxtail can admit that he’s probably a good fighter. Alone, but not as stick-thin as she is, he must be an adept hunter. But, most importantly, he is not Bramble and he is not someone that can bring Bramble back to her, and that alone is enough for her to dismiss him without a thought.

She considers turning, leaving to find the hollow where she had left Tybalt, and forgetting about this stranger. But as she watches him (because she doesn’t bother being polite and glancing away every now and then) she finds that there is no pity in his eyes, and none of the sadness that she sees constantly in Tybalt and her own reflection. He’s just curious, and as alone as she is right now, and Foxtail does not enjoy being sad. She does not like spending every moment of every day beside Tybalt and knowing that he is as low as she is, knowing that some wickedly cruel part of her blames the pale wolf for something that he’d had no control over. Foxtail will never be able to leave him, despite the fact that she tells herself she can, and perhaps, as she stares at this citrine-eyed stranger, she’s trying to fix it without even knowing.

“You looking for someone to stay with?” The young female asks without prelude. “Tybalt and I are looking for a pack, but you could stay with us; another hunter would be nice.” The typical introduction and process of getting familiar with someone is lost on Foxtail, who has only ever dealt with her birth pack and her sister’s imprint. She just knows that if Rio - who she knows know better than the she knows cottonwood tree down by the river – then she won’t have to spend all of her time alone with Tybalt or her thoughts. Well, that and the fact that she’s comfortable hunting in a group of three, and maybe, for the first time in weeks, she’s feeling a little hungry.