Swiftcurrent Creek On melancholy hill

Well, he was a nice guy, at least. Reminded her a little of Mahler, but he wasn't quite so silent-is-the-new-cool as the Grimnismal wolf was. She felt sort of bad for leaving the pack without giving her gruff lookalike a head's up, but if every other member's lack of respect was anything to go by, Mahler hadn't thought much of her, either. No one had, it seemed. Small wonder to most wolves, but to Wylla, it was confusing and devastating and had crushed any semblance of esteem she'd had.

She heaved a sigh and regrettably replied, "me, too. But your name is like bad luck," she reasoned, even though this wasn't true at all, "and I don't know why I keep getting crapped on." Swiftcurrent Creek was supposed to be a fresh start, even if she was wary as all hell of her new leaders—a pair of wolves who seemed to hold a grudge over something that barely happened didn't seem like the most objective sorts and she half-expected that she would be chased out for doing nothing wrong sooner or later. As if Wylla had never held a grudge over something stupid before. 'Course not.