Whitebark Stream Her namesake

Smartly, Sunny listened to her demand, and now they both stood adjacent to one another in the stream. There was light in his eyes when he looked to her, and he thanked her. The youngster had good manners, and Fisher began to feel that he wasn't a bad wolf but had simply acted out of misguided desperation. The thought made it difficult for her to be mad at him, especially when he was so eager to learn.

Instructing an English-speaker would be more difficult than an Inuit, but actions spoke louder than words. Besides, Fishing is simple. No unneeded moving―every move has meaning and must be quick. No loud sounds. Fisher turned back towards the fish, which had moved further away due to her loud, unecessary movements from when she was alerted of his presence. Pick a target, then grab behind the head. To demonstrate, the fisherwoman waded towards a fish, ensuring she never lifted her feet too high to reduce splashing. Then, she launched herself at the fish, sinking her teeth into the space just behind the head. It wriggled vigorously, but because she held it at the broadest part of its body, it could not free itself from her jaws.

Fisher moved for the shore and dropped her catch there, holding it down with a foot. To kill, hold it under your foot. Break the spine with your fangs. She did just that, lapping at the blood that stained her pale snout. Demonstration over, she nodded towards the fish―which had scattered due to her intrusion―to say your turn.