Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

The pause made Ico anxious that he'd said something troublesome, or at the very least odd; but it transpired the situation was simply more complicated than young Ico had assumed. He couldn't even begin to imagine how one forms a pack, but he supposed it couldn't be as basic as howling skywards and planting one's haunches. You needed packmates, strategy, territory, water sources, abundant prey... alright, perhaps Ico could begin to imagine how a pack was formed.

"Story?" his ears perked up. Ico swallowed another juicy mouthful of weasel, then gave his meal a break as he was confronted with the only thing more sustaining to him than food: storytime.

"Well. My name's Ico. I hail from three weeks thataway, a low packland called Walnut Grove. It's a smallish group, and they get by well because they're rather choosy. And if you're choosy, why choose a boy like me? I haven't any skills. I was born into the pack, but that isn't a free ticket to permenant residency, which... good for them, I suppose. They don't want scroungers. So I was, erm, asked to leave, and..." he shifted his weight, and flopped one forepaw over the other. "My story goes on a bit, as I wandered out into the world and sought a place to stay put, but there is no satisfying conclusion to the story, not yet anyway. So it may be better to end it here, by this mysterious broken boulder, where I found a nice fellow who helped ensure I'd be alive to keep chasing that satisfying conclusion."