He had intended to have a quick bite to eat before making his way toward the North. Food had not exactly been sparse on his current journey, but it had been boring. Hares and squirrels, once the carcass of a fawn. Small stuff. He hungered for something bigger, or at least variety, and if it had been a case of speed, of course it wouldn't have been a problem. But he simply couldn't afford to be gored on the horns of a full-grown moose, and birds didn't run. So the little gurgling tributaries had been a welcome sight to the wiry black wolf, who salivated at the thought of fish.
Only he couldn't catch one.
The sneer turned into a grimace as his right forepaw once more came up empty. The water was icy cold and starting to numb the velvet padding, which could potentially be deadly if he had to fight (or flee) for his life within the next few moments. But bubbling anger was replacing all rational thought as Hosclaw finally struck the water with both paws in frustration, spraying the front half of his body with icy darts of liquid and certainly scaring all the little fishies in the area away. A single yelping snarl wrenched its way from his maw as the needles of water found their way into his eyes. Rarely did Holsclaw lose his cool completely, but now, half-crazed from his long trek and his lust for aquatic nourishment, he plunged his whole body recklessly into the murmuring waters and forced his eyes open.
Rarely was Holsclaw a lucky wolf. His lack of death up to this point could be attributed mostly to good sense, and substantially to skill. But now, as the breath was knocked out of his lungs from the cold, he opened his silver eyes right into a school of fish, their scales flashing as they attempted to wriggle away from the strange black creature that had been dumped so unceremoniously into their midst. Holsclaw snapped his teeth together once, and gave a push upwards toward sunlight.
As he surfaced, he blew water from his nostrils. Holsclaw paddled to the bank and, as four-legged creatures are wont to do, scrambled awkwardly back onto land. He shook his fur out from his nose to his tail, but in the last extremity it seemed not to stop. He was shaking it like a pup. There, in his powerful jaws, squirmed a fish in the last throes of its untimely demise.
Lucky Holsclaw may not be, but stubborn he certainly was.