Bearclaw Valley Shot out of a cannon

He set off from the Hollow in pursuit of the deer that settled quietly in the Western reaches of the pack's claim, a group he'd watched with silent patience as they rested for a time. Artyom counted a couple of the previous year's young bucks and fourteen does, some with Spring fawns at their flanks, and a proud stag who stood watch over his harem. His study was from a distance but, when the bull roused his family as morning broke, the hunter was sure to keep them in his sights.

Their travels brought Artyom to a valley that unnerved him. The first thing he noted was the singular entrance, something that immediately made his furs prickle. He didn't like feeling trapped, much preferring the shelter of a vast forest over steep cliffs or rockly slopes. The second thing he noticed was the unsettling stench of predator, a musk he knew to belong to a species far more deadly than his own. Still, Artyom was unwilling to let his herd escape without further study; they could be of use to Lost Creek Hollow and its growing pups.

There was no ay out for the deer but the way they'd come, so the golden wolf hung back to follow his nose tooward the nearest water source. As he veered through an open field of wildflowers, his dark gaze found the tawny figure of a young stranger. He took a moment to observe the yearling's quiet contemplation before he offered a soft woof in greeting to accompany the friendly swish of his pale tail.