He had been welcomed into the pack of Spirane, and yet had found himself being...overwhelmed. His experience outside of Moladion had led him to avoid the crowds. He enjoyed company, had positive thoughts and hopes and yet found himself cursed once more than one wolf was around. Thus, he stuck to himself mostly. And there were so many here! His nose was always filled with scents, and it always seemed that new ones were popping up all over the place. This was a very different land than the one he came from, very different indeed.

Yet the claws of hunger dug deep within it. It was like a kneading cat, claws going in and out, over and over again. It was a never ending cycle. He was used to fending for himself in many ways, and also providing for others. He set out on this early morning, brown paws on the base of the mountain carrying his darkened form into battle. It was a battle of life or death. A battle against the hunger that drove him to kick his nose into gear and search for prey.

As he scanned the perimeter of the mountain, his nose caught wind of goat. The droppings he found were fresh, and he lowered himself to the ground as he allowed his eyes to identify any movements. In the distances, along some rocks, he saw a young goat. As he watched it with his golden orbs, he notices a limp- and that it was alone, or so it seemed. He knew that others may be near by, but perhaps this was his moment to take the injured goat. He knew not how bad the limp was as it grazed, it may be quite superficial, but it was enough to get his senses going.

With his muscles coiled and form hugging close to the ground, he creeps forward. He was not initially close, and it was not a smooth ride to the goat. The goat was munching on foliage between rocks, but still sticking close to the mountain. His rugged visage was fixated, and his flecked back did glitter at the right point in the light. He moves- step after step- so slowly and quietly, maneuvering around rock almost like a cat. He would pause when the goat moved, ensuring he was not seen. It was many moments of stalking. His heart beat with the blood of his ancestors in anticipation. There was really no rule on when to dash and strike. It was all instinct. He felt the moment was right, and he bolted.

He did not snarl or growl. He simply dashed, and almost immediately the goat noticed. It's injury was enough to slow it, but not enough to make it a piece of cake for Rollo. It was not nearly a bad enough limp that he had hoped for, but he did not break his concentration. He felt his paws slap against the flat rock, pushing himself to go fast before the goat was able to jump upon higher rock. He edged closer and closer, but he swore that the wind was pushing against him. As the goat reached a rock, it jumped and slid back down. He was still a good yard or two away, with his jaws parting. The goat had a second chance to jump, and as the goat was pulling itself up, Rollo jumped up to snap at it...but it was too late. His jaw just missed the hoof. Rollo moved to the right, leaping on a smaller rock and then onto another. The goat was moving desperately, but the terrain was now in its favor. Rollo was not used to this rocky world. He attempted to chase for but a moment before he lost his footing, tripping and falling on his side.

He fell on a rock that was rather sharp and stole the air from his very lungs. He lay for a moment, feeling the burn of a cut on his shoulder. He growled in frustration, lifting his head to see the goat leaping away, oh so far away. He huffed as he sat upwards with a wince on his face. He had hoped to bring the goat as an offering, either to the Queen or to another in an effort to make peace and friendship- but it appears no such thing would happen today.