Lost Creek Hollow i'm out of the game

focus nearly singular upon the winding slither of the creek and the bobble of fish heads breaking the surface, mistaking the patter of raindrops for food. pathetic, joaquin thinks without apathy. it was too easy to think less of the meager creatures he sees as nothing other than food ...though certainly not his first choice. would it not have been for the snort breaking over the sound of rainfall, the gurgle of the creek as it rushed deviantly against rockbed and earthwalls the st. clair might not have even noticed the other. pale green gaze slides in the direction and notes what he missed prior: the soft pastel cream of the younger wolf pressing into the shadows of the tree he lounges beneath.

despite the opposing coloration of his pelage, the shadows and leafy fronds had been doing a good job of concealing him, for the most part. but now, he has the gangster's all consuming attention; not always the best thing. to be marked with anything more than a cursory glimpse. steps slow though they do not draw him nearer nor further away from the boy. do you find something amusing? deep timbre drips from joaquin's lips like smoke writhing from the glowing end of a cigarette, or the billowing nostrils of a hellborne dragon; not condescending nor angered. merely mutedly curious.