Whitefish River old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends

set as close as possible to morningside's border without trespassing. for @Grayday. set at dusk Dec. 6, when the stars and moon are just beginning to rise

Fengari's daughters had given their command. He was to stay no longer in this valley; the twinkling girls had beckoned him northward, across the mountains, and he would not disobey. After his conversation with Sera at the hot springs, he began to follow this river toward the range, sleeping on its banks by day and following the asteria by night.

The river curved suddenly, embracing the edges of this plateau tucked gently into the steep edges of the mountainside. He would have gone on, had he not caught a scent that seemed. . .familiar. Faintly so, but familiar nonetheless. Intrigued, Phocion kept going, and found himself near a pack's territory.

They were big and strong, from their scent markers, with wolves ranging from middle-aged adults to adolescents. And that oh-so familiar scent reigned strong here, pungent and masculine, a distinct warning for intruders to stay back. Was this an old Silvertip friend? Had some of the wolves from that mountain made a home here?

That evening, he awoke from slumber and stopped a dozen or so paces away from the pack's border, looking over the river and up the plateau. He wondered if maybe that familiar scent would materialize into a familiar face. Maybe, just maybe.