Whitebark Stream remember me for centuries

Semet did not take offense to her weariness, to her territorial behavior; habitually for the simplicity that she was doing what all wolves were meant to: protect what was hers. She was pregnant, at that, and the Seakru warrior, instinctual as he was, had a deep seeded and archaic acceptance and understanding that her maternal instincts were at a paramount. He was lucky that she had not given chase to him ...or called her wolves to do it. His words were true though: he meant no harm or trouble to her and her's. An uneasy sort of truce was established between them: “grounder” and Teekru woman. She allowed him his drink, and with a chuff of gratitude he lowered his muzzle once more to the cool water's the stream offered and his salmon pink tongue lapped at it, his drinking paused only when she informed him of a river north of their current position.

Semet's head rose, his fiery gaze studying her in quietude as she spoke, what he perceived (though he couldn't be sure) as an afterthought, that he should stay clear of the territory north of it. It was curious that she offered this warning freely for, by all rights, she did not have to advice him of other packs in the region. His well being meant nothing to her. However, her words did not strike him as a surprise given his conversation with one of Heda's wolves. “Drageda,” Semet spoke in acknowledgment giving a grim nod. “The Sleeping Dragon.” He offered in common tongue. “I have met one of their's on the Glacier,” Semet informed her, exchanging his own information as gratitude for her own. It had been some time since the scout had spoken so many words.

Semet was not aware of the standing between the two packs but saw no reason to withhold what little he'd been able to extract from the Seageda male he'd met. After all, she had given him information she could have so very easily withheld but did not — thus he offered her what little he knew in exchange though it was likely nothing she did not already know herself.