Whitefish River live fast, die young

Arriving next turn.

Ears perk at the sound of a summons—urgent, from the borders, and one of their expecting mothers. The bear is quick to his feet, enough so he stumbles trying to get from the river he loved so much. He drops the fish he’d caught on the shore, uncaring that dramatic splashing likely chased the prey from their waters for awhile.
He charges forth, soaked legs, chest and stomach. Wasting a precious second to shake off could very well be the deciding factor; as it was when Thistle had been murdered. He swallows thickly, and picks up the pace in the direction of the summons.