Seaside Moors redline

It was lucky that Yosemite was not a mind reader; he would have been even more intimidated to be standing at the borders of a strange pack with words like giants and gods being thrown around. And he would have been confused because his imagination was not quite so colorful, and at the same time might have felt as though some great mystery had been resolved.

So that was what Nine thought like. The outside matched the inside.

But he could not know these things, so he was equal parts anticipation and miserable anxiety, standing with his shoulder level with Nine's hip, as though a cripple would be enough to protect him from half a dozen attackers. "I'm h-here," he assured, wiping the stupid, nervous look off his face to draw not-quite-level with the older wolf. He took a deep breath and then, after checking to see that Nine was waiting on him, he tipped back his head to give a timorous howl.

Something had occured to him, and he took a moment while they waited to mention it to Nine: "This is a smaller pack, but they s-sure have a lot of land." Perhaps it was just the unrelenting rain, but Yosemite rather thought that the markers were weak. Stretched thin. It made little sense to him that such a small pack would sprawl over the moorland and a forest as well, but he thought it boded well for them. Perhaps they needed a hand badly enough to take on a pair of wolves like them.

Referencing the Rusalkans occupying the Shadewood. @Annigan @Erzulie