Brun, the elder boar, sports a scarred snout and a perpetual smirk, nudging a heavy plum with his hoof. Gristle, his younger, wiry companion, balances a half-eaten apple on his tusk, his eyes sharp with mischief. "Careful with that one, Gristle. If you drop it, the whole forest’ll smell our secret before the wolf even gets a whiff." "Relax, Brun. If the wolf had half your nose, he’d be running from us, not the other way ‘round. Besides, I seasoned the batch—just the right kick to drop a bear, let alone a flea-bitten canine." "Your seasoning last time nearly put me under. Let’s hope our guest’s palate is less refined." The two exchange a conspiratorial glance, shoving the fruit into a shallow trough, their practiced hooves working in sync.

Gristle circles the trap, scattering a few leaves to disguise the edges. "Do you think he’ll swagger in or skulk around like last time? I prefer a wolf with a bit of bravado—it makes the fall funnier." "Tonight, he’ll strut. The wind’s right. He can’t resist the smell of his own ego—or our cooking." Suddenly, twigs snap in the shadows. A tall, lean wolf, coat coarse and silvered with age, steps into the golden light, his eyes glinting with hunger and arrogance.

The Wolf, cunning but vain, circles the fruit, licking his chops. "Well, well. What’s this? Have the forest’s little pigs set out a feast for their betters?" "Only the choicest for visitors, sir. Fermented with a secret blend—old family recipe." "Go on, try it. You won’t find a sweeter bite this side of the river." The Wolf scoffs, but greed overtakes caution; he plunges his snout into the mash, slurping noisily, as the boars exchange sly nods.

"You… you think you can trap me? I’ve outsmarted—outsmarted every—hic—beast in this forest." "No doubt, noble wolf, but tonight your mind seems… a touch foggy." "Perhaps you’d prefer a little rest? Our hospitality extends to grooming and a nice, hot bath." The Wolf sways, confusion turning to dread as the boars nudge him toward the pit, their movements smooth, efficient, and practiced.

"Hold his tail, Brun. Last time, the squealing nearly soured the broth." "You focus on the back. I’ll handle the delicate bits. A well-shaved wolf is a cooked wolf." As they work, their banter is punctuated by the wolf’s weak protests and the rhythmic scraping of the razor. The air fills with a scent both savory and sinister, the forest eerily silent except for their laughter and bubbling water.

"You know, Brun, when I was a piglet, I used to dream of outsmarting foxes. Wolves seemed a bit… ambitious." "Ambition’s what divides the bacon from the beast. We learned from the best—old Sow taught us well. Never eat what you can outwit, and never trust a wolf’s appetite." "Or his liver. Pass the kidney, will you?" Their laughter echoes through the trees, cleverness and survival written in every bite, the legend of the boars growing with each moonlit feast.