Whitefish River gone fishin’

@Ira sorry for the wait! date can be adjusted, vaguely assuming it’s late August/early September. also assuming Fin learned some names; tags for reference

Rain had a funny way of making the days pass: too slow, and not slow enough. The fact Finley had spent much of it in a muddled daze of sleeping, hunting, resting again, did not help. Though her will to linger diminished by the day, an unspoken debt tethered her by Whitefish River; refilling the caches was the least she could do for Kaistleoki, whose shelter she’d accepted with a healthy amount of hesitation. Better in a pack lands than alone, in this endless storm.

There was also that gnawing curiosity: what had become of the wolves who’d dragged her here—or, well, vice versa? She’d lingered by @Speedy’s den for a time but, given her obliviousness to medical know-how, Finley thought her presence unneeded. And then, it seemed, just as suddenly as she’d run into her, @Orlaith had disappeared. (The leader too had risen at some point in Finley’s absence, but seeing as she’d known Ira thus far only as an unconscious body, the inevitable heal and leave weighed far less in Finley’s mind.)

Odd. It wasn’t as though Orlaith had any real obligation to stick around, bid farewell—and neither did Finley, in a pack’s territory, in the ex-guard’s absence. Still, routine postponed her leave. The day caught Finley in what had quickly become her usual regimen: standing by the river’s southeast edge, where the pack’s scent had started to fade, eyes fixed on the rapids. At last the downpour had slowed to a drizzle, the sky rendered white by a midday overcast—a respite, after everything.