Whitebark Stream Don't drag me along to your slaughterhouse.

When at last he spotted an unfamiliar figure, Artyom paused in his tracks. He lifted his crown to better look upon the stranger, warm gaze studying: slight of frame with a certain sharpness about her and with a softness to her features, he could tell that youth was on her side. A yearling, perhaps?

Despite his mouthful of dead squirrel, he did his best to smile for her in silent greeting. At his rear his dense tail gave a friendly wave, ears high atop his golden crown and gaze eager to see or hear a response.