Whitefish River I like the honey, not the honeybee

The sound alerts him out of an uneasy slumber, and the lion is lazy to respond as he adjusts to being awake. He's busy stretching out his forelimbs where he's laying - resembling a melanistic beast of the serengeti more than a wolf for that split second - and squints against the dim sunlight. The call carried along the riverside but when it hit the fog bank it seemed to stop, and the odd silence thereafter made Firefly curious. He rose to his paws and shook out his coat, then began to march his way down to where the river's racing pulse could be heard rather than seen. He is wary (more-so for the shuddering of the earth, worried and expectant of calamity) but in time, meets with an impressive sight that pushes all thoughts of danger from his mind.

There is the silver wolf from the reeds (whose name escaped him for the present) and Firefly steps up alongside her, flicking his remaining ear when she mentions a name - or so he assumes - but his blue eyes don't move from the bear-like wolf standing at the territory limit. He's awed more than afraid; curious of many things all at once (how strong is this man? how many bodies would it take to fell him? could he fight him alone..?) but he is silent, more a guard than anything.