Swiftcurrent Creek and when the levee breaks

There wasn't much time that elapsed between Shale's query and the maelstrom that would be upon him. He caught the word pack in the woman's rebuttal, and was about to offer his own question on the matter--where in the hell were the scent markers, and how'd he missed them?--when a brown blur came seemingly out of nowhere, nipping at his hocks. The woman soon followed, and Shale found himself being driven inexorably back by snapping jaws, outstretched claws.

"Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?!" he exclaimed, face set in a snarl but otherwise not offering any sort of defense, even though the woman dealt a pretty good bite to his ankle. If this was indeed a pack, and he'd inadvertently strayed past the borders, then he had fucked up. His stomach dropped, and he took several steps back, tail low, eyes flashing from calm to furious to calm once more.

"Stop, damn it! I wasn't here to cause any trouble," Shale insisted, voice ringing across the open land. "I've made a mistake. I wasn't aware of any borders when I came here. Hell, I didn't even know there was a pack here--I thought the closest was Easthollow."

His right rear paw was liberally covered in blood, and the cut sting. Wincing, Shale drew in a deep breath--and thought he caught the acrid odor of territorial markings, somewhere nearby. "Well, shit," he remarked, more to himself than anybody. He kept retreating from the wolves, gaze wide and wary. "Which pack are you? When did you get here?"