Gripping at Tychon’s legs were clumps of algae and reeds of goosegrass. Coarse fur would have solved the problem of the confounded plants because then they wouldn’t have been able to stick, but his tan leg fur was the perfect dryness following winter that everything clung to them. As he marched into shorter grasses, he risked kicking his legs out to get rid of some of the mud and wet plants. He flinched when he struck a woody plant; it rustled obnoxiously. Ugh. No matter where he went, he somehow made a mess. Either because of eating, or because of walking out over a tree trunk, who decided it would be a fantastic laugh to dump him into the swamp water.

Tychon lost all caution with the racket the woody plant at give off; no prey would be around anymore. He shook himself violently, tossing swampy water and loose fur in all directions. His lips upturned to spray the immediate area around him with slobber. He clicked his tongue in disgust as he walked forwards again, kicking off leaves and extra water as he went until he slid into the den brush again. Now he’d have to wait another hour before prey would find the woods safe enough to wonder about.

Maybe if his father was doing his job properly, Tychon wouldn’t have to wonder all the time in order to keep himself fed. He was a larger wolf! He need a lot to eat and his dad didn’t seem think he needed help anymore now that he was three years old. But guess what? Hunting grouse and fish and toads and mice and rabbits didn’t fill the stomach. It just satiated it enough to give him the energy he needed to get the next small bit of prey. Hunting anything larger was out of the question; he needed a hunting partner for that.

A fawn, he knew he could take. But the last time he did that, he’d gotten a bruised shoulder that caused him to limp for a week and made hunting more difficult that it usually was. And don’t laugh at him; those pesky brats were quick and tougher than they appeared. Their hooves were like little daggers and they fought like a badger protecting its burrow.

Tychon snapped his teeth together and lowered his head to a clear puddle to lap up some water. His tongue flashed out to test where the water was while his head inched closer; his caution was made into a habit. He often made himself choke because of the way his defect, a cleft lip, guided water into his nose if he took in took much at one time. When his soft tongue found the cool liquid, the young male sighed in mild relief. At least he didn’t have to worry about hydration.