Whitefish River Talk about backseat fishing

this may possibly be a cameo?

The tundrian readily follows; since the fall Evergreen is the only face she remembers with clarity. The grizzly-esque male has been kind; it is not a difficult choice giving him her loyalty. 

The dove watches from her perch in the trees, dark gaze intent as it locks upon the predatory movements of her companion. 

Fish, supplies an inner whisper, Fishing, a correction. 

Three paws pace to the edge of the water - as if tugged by some unseen magnetic force - and the white femme slipped into the creek's cool embrace. It penetrated her arctic coat - a welcome relief on a summer day.

Inky nose hovered centimeters over the creekwater, breathing the soothing freshwater scent deeply into her lungs - wet and mossy, a tad fishy. 

Silver forms flickered between her forepaws, undulating vaguely beneath the surface as the fish considered whether the wolf was safe to investigate. Her pale crown cocked as a fish darted forward to nibble at her fur. 

The fae lunged, face plunging into the water and jaws snapping shut around the slimy creature. She withdrew from the liquid, shaking her head and snorting softly. 

Her eyes widened, once she had blinked the water from them, at the sight of the fish resting belly-up atop the stream's surface. Gingerly, she took it in her jaws and padded back to the bank. 

The sylph shook the water from her drenched pelt before resting her catch upon the ground - eyeing it as if still shocked that she'd caught it.