Whitebark Stream remember me for centuries

The morning was humid but there was a relieving cool breeze that wound around the charcoal and varied gray tendrils of fur at his chest and along the length of his spine as he rose from his temporary shelter — a felled, rotted log — shuffling out of the tight space and giving his coat a shake to free it from pieces of softened wood and bits of moss that he had disturbed with his presence. A hollowed, half rotted log was no den that was for sure, but it worked in a pinch. There were some nights when Semet did not entertain the thought of having his back exposed to the elements ...and to others. He had spent a portion of his morning hunting down a plump fox and it was only after he'd eaten that he left the general area he'd spent the night and made his way towards the winding stream he'd spent a small measure of time investigating from a safe distance the day previous.

His steps slowed to a cease as he approached it's bank, shrugging past the white birches and aspens that acted as a sort of fortress around it, offering shade against the warmth of the sun as it shone down upon the earth uninterrupted. Semet's muzzle lowered to the bank to sniff a few times at the water before he inched closer to the water's edge and lapped a few times at the cold water, before he drew back, salmon pink tongue drifting across his lips and chin to lick off the droplets of water that had collected on the short hairs there. It was crisp and movement within it's depths told him it was populated with fish of some kind — though he could not determine specifics. He licked his chops once more before he bent his head back down towards the water and resumed his intent to sate his thirst.