The day had been nothing but a series of frustrations, one after the other, and the irritations prickled at his skin as though they had manifest into fleas as big as mice. Perhaps it was just that Celandine's betrayal had finally sunk in, which had coupled with the far more forgiveable yet notable absence of Wraith and left Craw feeling as though Whitestone were distinctly lesser than it had a moon's turn ago. At least he trusted his Second to come back, save for disaster - something which he couldn't guarantee wouldn't strike. And the fact that Wraith's return would not just herald the reunion of Craw with his most trusted, but also a chance of the news he so craved... The mice-lice bit and scratched and his flesh itched feverishly.
The sour mood on awakening had been only worsened by the absence of his chewing stick, which had not been where he left it the day before, and he had snapped unfairly at @Greer over its whereabouts - only to remember he had dropped it on the opposite side of the boulder absent-mindedly, and been forced to apologise to the innocent shadow. Choosing to separate himself from the pack in case one of the others accidentally sparked his ire, Craw had flounced down the goat track to the lake by the side of the monadnock for a drink, and endured a hostile face-off with the family of large swans swimming nearby. A missed lunge and beak-bitten nose later, Craw had retreated yet again, stalking out into the tundra to find something to vent his mounting anger upon.
Unhappily (or joyously, depending on your opinion of the wolf), the world hated him that day. What might have been a good outlet turned into a disaster when he came across the well-chewed remains of a young deer's leg, only to have an eagle swoop in at the last moment, completely out of the blue, and carry it clean away. He'd stared at it in disbelief as the huge bird flapped away, and what might have been admiration for a fellow distinguished predator was merely replaced by broiling rage that he had been denied his find.
Determined to find something to destroy, Craw had prowled across the lowlands, increasingly searching for one very particular scent. There was only one way he would be able to reverse the fortunes of the day in a way that was violent and bloody enough to satisfy him. It took him all day, but he knew they were out here somewhere, that family of inferior inbreds which he caught glimpses of occasionally while hunting -
The coyote family were doomed. His patience honed sharp by his desperate need to relieve himself of the furious itches all through his pelt, Craw laid the trap - himself, parked nearby to a bigger unidentifiable corpse he had found and dragged out here for this explicit purpose - and waited.
By the time his paws were taking him back to the monadnock, the evening air bitingly cold and with a mist descending once more over the lowlands, the fur around Craw's muzzle was thick with mongrel blood, the light in his eyes vicious with satisfaction. Determined not to risk spoiling the day by giving it anymore opportunity to mess with him, Craw stalked straight to the pack dens and dropped down inside, glad to find it yet empty, heart rate gradually returning to a regular pace as the adrenaline in his blood slowly faded.
He fell asleep with the image of coyotes dancing in his mind, and a promise to himself that he'd go back tomorrow and finish the job. It did a little to make up for the infuriating morning.