Swiftcurrent Creek an occupation popular with demons and ducks

He peered around the corner of the den he had been recovering in. His snipey head was levelled below his shoulders and the spiky fur along his nape was raised into even taller and stiffer quills. His eyes, a molten gold, were sharp with suspicion and without any warmth. The sounds of the forest unsettled him; Rhakios twitched nervously to the shuffle of feathers as birds flew, to the chatter of squirrels, and to the rustle of the leaves in the slight breeze, with his ears flicking to and fro in each sound's direction. For every step forward he took, he took two back.

It was some time before the boy pulled himself from the den entirely and snaked through the woods in the manner of a skittish cat: cautiously, attentively, hunched and employing any cover available to him. He could only dimly recollect what had transpired since that thunderstorm. He was unsure of what to make of his new surroundings and the distinct absence of his family and the security he had associated with their presence.

Noise drew him. The coywolf placed each paw quietly and reservedly. His heart hammered in his breast and he was tensed, flight-ready, prepared to scuttle back to the den. It was the only place that smelled like him and so which offered a morsel of safety and comfort. He poked his narrow snout out from the tall ferns where he crouched, only so far so that he could see the small black pup running around the log. He was feline in manner even now as he watched her like a young tom watching a small bird. Rapt but still, as if assessing his desire to hunt and his odds at success.