Blackfeather Woods young artists have gotta starve

He groomed himself, fluffing out the thick mantle of firey fur and his cream-toned chest. His winter coat was growing in. He knew that his grandfather was an Arctic wolf, and that mother had inherited a lot of his visage, but as for his father? If he asked his Mother about each and every man she had mated with, he would get a vague estimate. He could only guess that the man was Arctic, or from far in the north.

He watched as the smaller woman tore off a few more slivers of flesh for herself, his eagerness seemingly encouraging her own. The silence between them did not last long, for as soon as she finished, she turned to him, quipping back. 'Cuz I'm a growing boy, He fluffed himself up, smirking. I know you've been hanging around here for sometime, but why? You haven't really participated in anything as of yet, have you? She wasn't training — she wasn't even an official member. All she seemed to do was skulk about. Sometimes he caught her scent near the herb stores, but saw little of her. This was the first time he had ever seen her up close, let alone speak to her.