Bearclaw Valley Like a rushing waterfall

The boy kept calm as he swayed from the jaws of his father. He knew the wolf carrying him, had known him since birth, and would not cause him any trouble. There was a growing sense of relief that filled him more and more with each passing second, too. Every step took by Kove, made the little Inuit a bit more glad over having been picked up. At first, the idea of being carried had been like a bur in his paw, annoying him to no end. Now, though, he couldn't imagine walking on his own. Sure, it would have been great—perhaps even wonderful—but being carried by the elder ghost had definitely grown to be the preferred option. The swaying motion of his body, even, felt better than the feeling he'd got after splashing his sister with the puddle water. That made him certain that, for the time being, walking wasn't something he wanted to do.

Before he knew it, the icy feel of the rain was no longer hitting his body. He wondered, briefly, if the storm had ended already, but then he realized that that couldn't have happened. It didn't make sense. Xan's odd coloured eyes popped open, and he scanned the area around him. The storm hadn't ended, but instead he'd been taken into a den-like place. He would have assumed it to be a den right away, too, but there was something wrong with it. It smelled. Dens were suppose to be comfortable and filled with a homely scent, but wherever he was now didn't strike that chord within his small frame. He scrunched up his tiny nose and kicked at the air, but it was not to be put down. It was to be taken somewhere else. Too bad for him, though, he was set down anyways.

Sleep called to him, trying to drag his eyelids down while he was still sitting up, but he did not listen. Instead, he tried to stand up and leave, but was blocked by a familiar—albeit wetter—form. Then, a tongue swept over his body, filling him with a content feeling as his previously drenched fur was dried some. It still remained a bit damp, of course, but at least the surplus of water had been removed. A nose pushed him towards his mother's underbelly, but after seeing the others huddled so close there, he refused to go easily. Even in a situation like the current, his personal space was important to the boy. Since the movement would not stop, however, he settled close enough to be left alone, but not close enough to be touching any of the others. Only then, did the boy allow sleep to overtake him, and his mind filled with dreams of storms and large puddles.