Totoka River cherry soul

Moorhen was right to be paranoid. But she'd been looking in the wrong direction. Driftwood had been trailing her at a distance off and on since their last meeting—more "on" than "off," really, if one counted the furtive additions of various sticks and baubles to Moorhen's favorite woodpile in particular—and now, having trailed her with increasing worry across Undersea's landbridge and onto foreign shores, he bit by bit unconsciously sped up until he was at a swift ground-eating trot, closing the distance he'd been keeping. He managed to swallow back the small whine that wanted to escape, but as the wind brought him not only another tease of her scent, but also the sudden taste of another wolf—a stranger!—Driftwood's feet suddenly picked up the pace further yet.

Moorhen! It was relief and alarm both intermingled, as well as succinct greeting. Driftwood's long legs burst onto the scene and then very suddenly slowed to a deliberate and menacing stalk for their last few paces as he turned past the bitch's brown side and stopped, half-interposing himself between Moorhen and Teleklos as he turned his face toward the strange male and, with a low rolling growl rippling deep in his throat, pulled back his black lips to offer an impressive array of teeth.

It was more than a little ironic, really: under most any other circumstances Drift would likely have found himself in full sympathy with the lone wolf Teleklos. He'd even bowed his head and choked down a salmon at Moorhen's inadvertent command quite recently, in much the same way Teleklos had obediently imbibed of the river. But today was not like any other day, in some stubborn little corner of Driftwood's mind, and he'd only been growing more helplessly obsessed with Moorhen's scent in the interim since he'd last seen her. Suppressed fury glittered in Driftwood's eyes as he snarled out a few bristling questions of his own to Teleklos. Who are you? And just what do you think you're doing here, stranger?

Driftwood didn't seem to quite wholeheartedly partake of Moorhen's "the river is for everyone" philosophy. At least, not today—not here and now.