Duck Lake The Tingler

"Phocion," he finished the other's sentence, smiling. "And you don't have to call me 'mister.'" His icy gaze was level as he stared, wondering if the other man would introduce himself or if he would have to pry a name from him.

Passing through, apparently, though pack-scent did cling to his pelt. It was faded, slightly, but still strong enough to signify he had been with a group in the last moon. Where did he come from? Could he be a scout, navigating the land? Or a hunter, running down prey for his family?

"I don't mean to pry, mister. . ." He trailed off delicately in an echo of the man's last words, one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. "Where are you from? How long will you stay in this area?"