Otter Creek Konk-la-ree

As she worked away at her meal and spit out glossy black feathers as necessary, Kittiwake decided that blackbirds were a tad stringy for her taste. They would do in a pinch, but the sharp little bits of bone and constant tickling of feathers at the back of her throat were mildly irritating. Food was food, however, and the wolf was not about to waste a morsel. In a few weeks the hordes of blackbirds would be long on their way south, anyway.

Kittiwake was vaguely aware of another wolf in the area as his scent drifted her way in little snippets as the breeze changed, but she paid it little mind for the time being. She had passed no pack boundaries on her way in and had committed no error by hunting by the creekside, and if the visitor had come to try and steal her meal, they would soon see that she had already finished the better part of it. The stranger promptly revealed himself anyway, and Kittiwake twitched her hackles up slightly as he assumed a rather dominant stance and sidled up to her right.

“Evening,” Kittiwake responded in kind, voice faintly muffled by the red-spangled wing still clenched in her jaws. She tossed the last morsel down and peered inquisitively as her guest. The last several weeks of solitude had evidently robbed her of her skill at small-talk.