Lost Creek Hollow strike rate

He hadn't spent too much time exploring his new home, not yet anyway, as he'd been welcomed to stay in the middle of the night. Mink had focused on stashing away the fish he'd brought. Afterwards he was so tired from the thrill of it all that he'd found a soft patch of grass and passed out in it, his brain filling with distorting images of angry fish speaking with his late grandmother's voice; the dreams did not sink in too deeply though, and by morning he'd forgotten the entire ordeal. He woke up, shook the pine needles and mud from his coat, and carried on as if nothing had changed - it hadn't fully sunken in yet that he had a pack, but it would eventually.

The next few days passed swimmingly. Mink explored sparingly, mostly mapping where the pack stored their goodies so that he'd know where to take his future gifts and things. Then he did a tour of the outlying territories - those that fringed alongside the heavy scent of the pack - just to get the lay of the land. It had taken him hours of hiking to figure out the best routes, and as Mink came slinking back to the territory heart (and the lake, where he'd hoped to slake his thirst) he almost didn't notice the woman doing the same.

Or, that's what he supposed. She was moving at a jog away from the main waterway, and as Mink followed after her he realized there were many branching creeks within the territory which might, one day, burst with fish. It was the perfect place to live according to Mink. But the woman didn't stop - she wasn't interested in the water from what he could tell, and that seemed curious to him. It didn't occur to the wolf that maybe, maybe, stalking someone you've never met through their home could be misconstrued.