To say that she was concerned about the state of the pups was an understatement. She had little loyalty to the wolves of this pack, having scarcely met all of them, but pups were a different matter. They never meant to harm anyone, their only crime was being born. She had no knowledge of the story behind the silent woman's brood, or whether Merrick had actually fathered them, but his little outburst so soon after their birth had disquieted her. She lingered around Astara's den, delivering food when she could, but overall protecting, suspicious of the wolves that were her packmates.

She had to take breaks though, from her lonely vigil. She pulled herself towards the river that fed the Valley and found that she was not alone. A soft voice spoke those universal and timeless words that always meant the same thing. She stepped towards him. Go on then, lad, Orson urged on the pale wolf, curious to hear what story he had gnawing at his brain.

She laid down, surprised to hear that the story was familiar. The birth of the children baptized in a dog's blood, nearly torn asunder by their father's(?) jaws. Go on, she prompted again, wondering what he would spin from reality.

She knew little of the silent woman before she had seen the fruits of her labor. Other than seeing her every once and a while, there was nothing about her that Orson could pin down in terms of her being. She was astounded to hear that the young man admired her — from a battle no less. She'd have to ask about it after the story. She remained in a sort of rapture, the kind that one goes into as a story is told, her eyes fixed on the young man's face.

It was as he spoke that she realized more and more how little she knew about her leaders. She was drawn in by the boy's description of them both, how he clearly saw their contrasts and named them as such. For all her talkativeness, she had never been a great storyteller. Or at least not as eloquent as he. Ah, well...ye spin a good yarn. She smiled at him as he finished. What's yer name lad? 'm Orson,

I really mean it. she said earnestly. She wondered what other stories he had developing in his brain.

Her face scrunched up as she consulted her mental map, pacing this place to what had been her birthplace. I tink east a 'ere, she mused. I've been wanderin' so much since. 'ts been a while.

Hmm, Orson pondered, sifting through the years of experience she had from wandering the lengths of the continent. There's this place far east of here, called the Great Plains. It's just empty grassland fer miles and miles. There's hills an' what not, but no trees. Sometimes a bush here or there. She pictured the great expanse in her mind. An' it looks like nothin' should be living there. An' one day I was walkin' through, and me foot sinks into the ground, all the way up to my shoulder. It was some kinda hole, or summat. So I tried t'get out, y'know? But the dirt 'round it keeps slidin' in. I'm pretty much stuck. Then all of a sudden, these little rodent things — like li'l muskrats 'r somethin', start approachin' me. An' they bark! Well, it's more like a chirpin', but — there's ten or more of them, wit' their tails held high thinkin' they're tough an' gonna scare me off. An' the longer I fidget there tryin' t'get out, more and more come, 'til there's maybe fifty of 'em! By the time I get me paw out they're surroundin' me and I thinks — am I gonna get killed by a buncha rats? She laughs, thinking back to the malicious glares of the prairie dogs. They did look frightening in the heat of the moment. I high-tails it outta there soon as I was free. Never looked back. Never went back to the Plains again.

She chuckled, glad to be joined by someone else's laughter again, genuine and hearty. Seemed it, she shook her head. There were hundreds of the things around. It must have been a network of some kind. I ain't seen one far west from here. Only on those big plains, she shrugged. The land must have been better for their tunneling there since there weren't any big trees to make roots.