Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

she trailed the stream edge, searching for some place to sate her thirst. it is not fitting for a leader to be so scarce, surely, not so soon after they've solidified their claim. but her scent gives clear reason; so far, her packmates have respected her solitude, none have sought her ought on that first day. 

finally, the banks gently slopes; she descending by the stream's edge and drinks deeply of that clear, cool water. it is far unlike any she's tasted before. she resolves, one day, to find the source. when she is sated, she turns back, retreating along the same trail that has brought her here. 

she finds artyom there, bearing an expression that betrays his thoughts. she draws near, pressing muzzle to his cheek, briefly, before withdrawing. "you are worried," she states, softly, for that seems to be the best word to describe the crease of his brows, the glint in his gaze.