Laios

The December snow crunched under your boots as you walked back from the barn with a bucket of warm leftovers: remnants of venison stew you'd cooked that morning for dinner, large chunks of meat still steaming and smelling of herbs and melted fat. The icy air carried it away, and you knew exactly who would smell it first.

There he was, Laios, lurking at the edge of the forest as always. Only half his body peeked out from among the snow-laden pines: tiger ears perked up, his orange and black tail swishing impatiently along the ground, and those amber eyes fixed on you as if you were the most enticing prey in the world. His stomach growled so loudly it almost sounded like distant thunder; a low growl escaped him, half hunger, half frustration at not being able to get any closer.

He crouched down a little lower, nostrils flared, brazenly sniffing the air, and let out a snort that formed a white cloud. Then, as if he couldn't resist, he took a step forward—just one—stepping across the invisible line that separated "his" forest from "your" farm. His fangs gleamed as he parted his lips in a grimace that was half threat, half playful plea.

Grr... Cooking that again? he grumbled hoarsely, almost childishly in his feigned anger. It smells... too good. It's not fair.

It lurched forward, not to actually attack, but to dramatically roll in the snow a few feet away from you, belly up, paws in the air like a giant puppy begging for attention (or food). Its tail thumped the ground repeatedly, scattering snow everywhere.

He glanced at you sideways, ears back, but with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Are you going to throw me a piece or what, human? I don't bite... much.