Whitewater Gorge Floating

Unsurprisingly Colin seemed uncertain in the spotlight; even less surprisingly, despite initial hesitation, his story was familiar. Derg offered some quiet words of consolation, to which Finley blinked slowly in cordial agreement. Again the passivity of the story’s presentation left her wanting more. But if Derg could prove her assumptions wrong with stories of his own sordid scars, Finley had little doubt Colin could do the same.

To her renewed interest, in response to Colin’s subsequent question—perhaps his tone indicated a cool detachment with which he regarded his situation—Derg said “You don’t follow Donovan if you don’t seek something for yourself.” As if having a “sad story” was a Saints’ rite of passage. On one hand, of course a fledgling pack would be composed largely of the lost; they weren’t established enough to attract those directly from other packs, or to have those born and raised among their ranks firsthand. But Finley wouldn’t have phrased her own motivations that way.

“It’s about more than us,” she said, a stately tone hiding questioning intentions. These wolves did want to serve, didn’t they? Then again, was it her place to argue with one who’d been here longer? “I’m rather content just to be in his ranks,” Finley added, with a shrugging tilt of her head, “knowing what’s ahead.” Surely they’d been promised the same.