Swiftcurrent Creek I ain't happy; I'm feeling glad.

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From the yearling there had come not a single protest whilst being led away from the coast. Never had he been a coastal wolf, and never would he since the sea had often made him feel uneasy. He knew so little of it, having never been taught about what it housed or what made it so dangerous, and so he feared it. At times, he’d found himself happy to have decided to give himself over to a man, for the results had outweighed any downside he’d considered. Still, whilst grateful and developing an attachment, he’d not said a single word. There was nothing wrong with him, no ailments that prohibited the formation of sounds and words, he simply refused to speak. By using his voice in the past he’d made himself a target for punishments, many of which had been scarring enough to prevent him from ever speaking out of turn again. Only on very special occasions had the usage of his voice been encouraged, and so, until said occasion arose once again, no amount of questioning would result in verbal answers being given.

When they’d settled down somewhere unfamiliar to him, Mazatl had taken his time with quenching his thirst. Afterwards, he’d laid down, only to have then pushed himself right back up to his feet no more than a second or two later. Athanasius' departure, though quiet, had not been unnoticed. Unable to be left completely alone at any given time, the boy had followed after him, just as silent as always.

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