For the most part, Waxwing kept to himself. He reported to
@Mahler whatever he happened to see that had to do with the game in the hollow itself. He avoided girls at all costs, finding them intimidating and overwhelming. Even Vylla, who put off an icy air about her that Waxwing had no interest in trying to thaw. He was content here.
Presently, Waxwing found himself in the hilly area to the northeast. The mountains were even further east, but the boy found he wasn't very interested in exploring beyond that. There was enough here, right in the hollow, that he hadn't strayed from its confines since arriving.
It was not Anselm’s nature to be confrontational — at least not yet. That proclivity would come in the following weeks, as change came over Paleo and Anselm wrestled with his place within it. All the same he found himself trailing Waxwing’s scent.
He’d detected traces of this male here and there, and seen him occasionally with Papa. Enough to form a mental picture - young, about his age, a sallow tan with a bright mask that may have placed him firmly in Wylla’s family were it not for Anselm’s knowledge otherwise. Something about a male wolf his age jostled a hidden memory in the boy — and at times he wondered just where this competitive spirit came from.
He was not so bold as to announce himself. Rather, he stalked after Waxwing as he threaded the northeastern hills — deciding he’d make a game of how long it took the yearling to notice him.
The other yearling stalked, and it took a good few minutes before Waxwing noticed him. He wouldn't be a very good hunter if he allowed himself to go on being the prey for too long. He slowed, pausing to listen, his ears swiveling around on his head.
Turning around to where he had come from, Waxwing tried to make his voice bigger than it really was. Who's there?
he asked, eyes peering through the brush, seeking movement.
A few things gave Anselm away -- but the biggest culprit was the wind.
He paused as he saw the subject of his attention freeze; it was in the subtle shift of Waxwing's muscles, the way his eyes took a furtiveness to them.
Anselm.
Came his reply from the reeds. He stepped forward from the underbrush with a light shake of his ruff. Who are you?
By scent and sight he knew the wolf to be part of Paleo, but he had yet to meet him face to face.
After introductions were made Anselm left. He was not a wolf of casual chatter; the borders called for him and he made to them at a loose stalk.