Whitefish River graphite

Water is dripping off of him in droves with pitter-patter splatters, but Deimos still resists shaking. Big man in the splash zone and all makes for a bad idea; he’s not the type to invite the anger of locals without reason. 

He can tell, though, that something is on the man’s mind. It’s in the way he stands, how he conducts himself. It’s even in the way his laugh trickles off; Deimos watches him, waiting. 

Ah, there it is. He was trespassing. His fur is too sodden to show the lift of fur he feels. Deimos is many things but he’s not a man to trespass: either he’s obvious, or the scents are faded or all-together new. He looks about them, anticipating wolves from the thicket in any second. Really? His tone is one of disbelief, not defensiveness, but he takes a step back down the bank just in case. Yeah. Whoops. I didn’t even realize. You new or something? He’s thankful then that Evergreen doesn’t seem the hostile sort. In a scuff there’s no contest on who would win. He doesn’t want to linger, but isn’t sure where to go since he still can’t smell anything but the water trickling down his face. Does the rest of the pack match your size too?