Every day was something new for the Weaver of the Basin. What had once been a monotonous schedule, full of the same thing nearly every day, was now filled with only Gods knew what.

Had he any pants, Talbot would fly by the seat of them. One moment, he would be perfectly content with gnawing on the bone of yesterday's meal, and the next, he was zooming about with no real intent or purpose. The young hound was worse than a colt, for he was fueled by the blood of a predator, even if he didn't seem so terrifying quite yet. One day, though, those too-big paws would be carrying him swiftly after an enemy. But for now, Crowley was content with the pup's eager playfulness, even if it required him to keep on his toes at all times.

Currently, the pup had his belly glued to the ground, only his rear end and tail sticking up in the air. His eyes were locked on the form of his bonded, who had been taking advantage of a rare moment of respite and filling his belly with thin grass. Talbot seemed to know that the brindle had let his guard slipped, so when he thought the moment right, the pup sprang from his cover behind a scraggly bush, and barrel forward at the face of the horned equine. At the last moment, he leapt, and in the process managed to get both front legs caught behind one of the stallion's great horns.

Thankfully, for Talbot's sake, Crowley had seen the pup coming right before he came crashing into him, though he hadn't expected him to leap. Should the Weaver had jolted and thrown his head up, the pup would have surely gone for the ride of his life, and there was no doubt that that wouldn't have ended well. "... Talbot," came the Weaver's voice, laced with a hint of annoyance. The pup seemed to pick up on it, voicing his thoughts with a pitiful whine while he untangled himself.

The second that he was free, however, the pup seemed to have cheered up, for he gave a quick lick across Crowley's cheek before turning and darting off, bounding through the snow in no real direction. Lifting his head, Crowley gave a ragged sigh and shook his head before giving chase to the pup, moving at a steady trot.

Up ahead, Crowley spotted the familiar form of his blood coated friend, d'Artagnan. Sitting in front of him was the Time Mender's own hound, looking the epitome of innocent. For a moment, Crowley wondered if the stud was having the same issues that he was, yearning for nothing more than a short break from the youth that plagued the young canines.

"Evening, brother," Crowley spoke up, having slowed to a walk by now as he approached, "I see you've got your hands full as well." Even Talbot had slowed, eyeing the towering bay with weary eyes before he spotted the much smaller, more welcoming form of the other pup. Behind him, his own pointed tail had set to swaying back and forth, an open invitation to play should the other accept. Unable to help himself, he gave a high pitched, playful yip, and noise that would slowly begin to mature in the coming months.