Mistral

Golden eyes in morning mists.

Paws sure, shoulders set - a reluctant lead who misses the days of hunting that now he is too busy to afford. Stalk, hunt, kill; a dance he is so well versed that his body still moves with that familiar and well practiced stride. A distant longing fills his eyes when his companions leave.

Return soon, my friends, with tales of the wind whisking through your fur and struggling prey betwixt your fangs.