Blacktail Deer Plateau I'm Hemingway with a shot of whiskey

a deep depression had settled onto the man as of late. he castigated himself daily for the failure he had brought to lay before his niece -- she had left them for specific reasons, and he despaired of the rift ever mending. while he was grateful for blue willow's tending, her affections, the druid's heart yearned for his pale lover, for the amazon upon the surf-tossed strand. and not for the first time lasher wished he had the strength to leave for a time, and wander as he once had, an unbound and feral spirit uncaptivated by any individual.

thirst drove him hence; the beta set a slow amble for the stream, nares flaring as he scented the air. there was nothing here; their numbers had dwindled almost to nothing, a hesitant cough of placid wolves in a great forest.

the silver ribbon of the water loomed ahead, visible through the tree-boles, but taltos beheld the approaching form of his leader. putting aside his wants, the beta stepped to greet the gunmetal man, recalling in a rush how he had spoken of his affections to the alpha. it seemed that years had passed since that time, or perhaps he was merely old. "the fishing gods have favored you."