Kintla Flatlands regency

She was an astute creature, that much was clear.  Just how astute, he had no idea, for she was right in every observation.  Even those she did not voice.  He had not realized he carried his mantle so visibly, though he wondered if looking the part made him any more suited to it.  Likely not.  Though he had grown much these past months, it still felt many times as if it were an ill-fitting coat he wore.

A foreign sounding name as well.  He wondered where she came from, though he did not ask.  "Not my lands, not my supplies," he said simply, for he didn't hold with the outreaching territorialism that some wolves chose to take.  Anything that was not claimed was to be shared, and if you weren't clever enough to compete, well then, you went hungry.  "Felling oxen alone is a feat for any age, I've no doubt."  She didn't look so old, but he'd never been great at guessing ages based on appearance.  Honestly he hadn't met many older wolves until he came here... wolves in his homeland didn't tend to live so long.  There was a fine line drawn there between an admirable veteran and a burden to the pack.  The latter was unthinkable.

"Besides that, fish aren't necessarily my strong suit,"  he admitted, glancing at the stream.  Give him a deer or an elk any day, but he had yet to successfully catch one of those slippery little blighters.