Whitefish River if the heavens ever did speak

The plains had welcomed him after the mountain. He'd rested in the foothills and ambled through them, then upon finding the flatland, enjoyed the feeling of freedom as he ran across them and explored. There were distant shapes on the horizon; large beasts, mythological in his eyes, which drew him further and further. The bison were utterly dismissive of him. They were tall, broad, and appeared ancient at the same time; they circled up upon noticing him, keeping their calves in the center, and watched as he drifted on.

He found a river and slaked his thirst, tried his hand at fishing up a snack — then with one salmon consumed and in pieces on the bank and another twitching weakly among the rocks, he grabbed the second and carried it off. The man jaunted along the riverside until there came signs of life again: not the bison, and not the pulse of the river, but something more familiar. Trails that were well marked with wolf-scent.

Raimo plopped the fish down, placing one paw upon it possessively despite being alone. He looked around with a few curious glances, then relaxed and began to lick his face clean of fish scales and blood from earlier. He made himself as proper-looking as he could, and then lifted his chin and softly crooned a howl.