Lost Creek Hollow Fargo, North Dakota

Following the rise of a warm sun in the morning, a temperate afternoon thawed the murky moorlands where once frost had held the water in small, frozen pools. Now, with the mid-day sun beaming down with well-mannered kindness, the moors just to the South of the Hollow thawed out, seeping a once muted stench of mud and decay into what otherwise would have been the crisp, fresh air of the wilderness. After having been trudging through the bog for nearly an hour straight, the young man found his sense of smell completely disoriented and he’d become completely disenchanted with the area. All he’d wanted was a drink of water- and common sense dictated that there would be a stream or river or something that led to the moorlands...He was right, but the water there had been contaminated by the same, sulfuric taste that filled the air with a rotten egg stench. Not at all pleased with how his day was going, he followed the flow of the murky water until it led to a wooded area and without bothering to remove himself from the stream of water, once it converged with another stream, he continued on a North-East path without realizing what he was doing.

With the moorlands scent still in his muzzle and his concentration diverted by the prospect of clean, clear water, the young male clamboured awkwardly against the stream, occasionally slipping on the rocks below the surface, with his muzzle held low. He was picky about the water her drank. Don’t drink murky water; it’ll give you the quakes. He’d been warned before, and the thought of developing that terribly affliction was enough to turn him into a bit of a snob when it came to finding a source of water good enough to drink. Once he’d made his way up the stream far enough so that the stream’s waters had more or less washed the residual muck off his legs and underbelly, he stopped to drink. Still, all he could taste was the rotten taste of the moorlands and he grimaced. It was just a trick of the mind, he told himself. The water was fine.

What wasn’t fine was the fact that he’d crossed the borders of a pack some time ago.