Hellhound was on the scent of something. Or... he thought he was. For someone nicknamed "Hellhound," he sure didn't have a great sense of smell. He barely had any, really. That was the downside with not having a real face. Most of the parts of a normal soquili face weren't there, apparently including the ones that helped you smell things. He suspected that when he smelled things, what he really was doing was tasting the air. He didn't have a great sense of taste either, and therein lay his problem.
He thought he might be smelling something tasty. He open-mouth huffed air in, detecting traces of some delicious meaty scent on the wind. Either that or it was a mushroom. He'd been mistaken before. Today, mushroom or meat, he was on the trail. He hustled along, daring to hope that he might find an easy meal that he didn't have to catch himself.
