Whitefish River What the night knows

Having grown up under the thumb of one March Owl, Koontz didn't flinch at swear words, even those hurled at her loudly. Her ears slipped back a notch or two, yet that was all. She regarded the stranger coolly, understanding that she had quite obviously startled him. She gave him a moment to collect himself, nodding when he fumbled through a sincere (and almost endearing) apology. She even favored him with a little smile.

"I forgive you," she said lightly. "I prefer Koontz over woman or stranger," she added with a gleam in her ice chip eyes. "Maybe I can help you. What is it you're looking for?" the young leader inquired, already wondering what it could be that he was seeking. A person? A place? A thing?

As she awaited his answer, she crept a little closer, just so that she could make out his face better in the low light. The river burbled beside them and a gentle breeze kicked up, soughing through their ruffs. It carried a variety of rich and interesting scents. Koontz wanted to tip her muzzle into the stream and really pore through it. Instead, she remained focused upon the large male, her gray tail twitching slowly back and forth like a pendulum.