Swiftcurrent Creek On melancholy hill

My, my. What a complete buzzkill. Wylla's muzzle wrinkled in response to his flippant remark. She yearned to protest against it, but the aftermath of her home conflict weighed heavily on her still. It was too exhausting to undertake another battle, and she wasn't keen on staying in a place that reminded her so poignantly of her so-called kin on the shore, so she made as if to leave him there with his paw in the water. She could find herself another fishing spot, preferably one with less backtalk. She halted only when he addressed her by name.

"How do you know my name?" hissed the mottled she-wolf as she turned back to Rysk, hackles bristled and white toes flexed hard on the pebbly bank. She had never seen this black-faced wolf in her life, and couldn't begin to guess at whatever his name was. Probably Creepzilla, was her sardonic thought. She didn't know him, so how in the world did he know her? Was he stalking her? That notion made her skin crawl.