The brown male marched along the river’s edge, determined to put distance between himself and Daenerys' domain. In short, Tychon was on a brief vacation. Pack life was nice and all - mostly because he got large-game meat regularly by virtue of pack hunts - but it had a paw in hell too. There were spoiled goody-goodies everywhere; they were wolves who thought they had it rough, but hadn’t the slightest idea how “rough” life could be. It got on his nerves, probably because when they saw him he could see their eyes widen or he caught them looking away a bit to quickly. He needed a break from their unsaid disdain, and he figured it would be a pleasant for them to remove the eye sore of the pack for a couple of days.

When the scent of the muddy river bank morphed into the cold musk of stone, Tychon paused and confirmed he’d made his way to Susil Crags. The realization of the distance he’d taken on in a couple of hours cause him to stretch his spine and legs. He stretched his mouth wide in a content, unconcerned yawn. His right lip pulled back over his teeth. The yawn on the left side of his face wrinkled the black scar of his missing lip into disgusting bulges and crevices. He finished his expression with a sneeze. Uncontrollable spittle shot out of his nose and from between his exposed dentures. Tychon rolled his amber eyes lazily up the crags; fish was apparently on the menu given his choice of a vacation spot.

He sprang up a few levels of the terraced waterfalls. At one of them, he paused for a half a second at a light colored male with one floppy ear. Tychon’s permanent snarl became grotesquely judgmental when even the gums whitened with tension. He barked harshly, pointedly staring down the other male wolf, ”The wild isn’t any place for dogs.” On a better day, Tychon might have let the guy fish. But he wanted the crags to himself and didn’t need any other freaks (beside himself) around to mess up his time away from dishonest eyes.