The yearling had little appreciation for flowers, stomping through the meadow with a empty glare. He smashed his paws against them, grinding them into the dirt as he walked. It wasn’t that he disliked them, he barely acknowledged their existence. He kept a slow steady pace, his body relaxed. He wasn’t in the greatest mood. The coyotes had been driving him irate. They showed up at the worst times, chased him until his legs were weak- or worse. Sometimes they’d catch him. It wasn’t too often, but there were a few times that the creatures had caught up to him and he had to fight his way out. This was making his health subpar at best. It was clear from his torn up pelt and slight limp that he had seen better days.
He was still surviving though. It wasn’t anything to worry about, or else he’d return to the pack and ask Garmir for help. It was just little impairing his freedom, and that was enough to make him travelling a nuisance. Yet, he continued to move south, both out of stupidity and curiosity.