Silver Creek hand-me-down dreams

Though never very far from his effervescent companion, Piety was almost always up earlier—and roaming farther—than she liked him to. He dared not stifle his search for the land befitting a defendable claim, and no amount of her winging would deter him from the task. It did not help that the constant rain made them both dour, which in turn made him all the more eager to cover ground without her, in a bid for peace.
 
Yet, as well as being more easily annoyed these days, he was also hyper-conscious of making the wolfdog feel unwanted. He knew that his perpetual absconding into the wilderness did not support any notion of fealty, and sought to remedy that by consistently, apologetically, returning from his absences with fresh, never-the-same-thing-twice meals. He was not always successful, but it was a goal he kept in mind that helped him focus and drove him forward. A dedication he committed to without need.
 
Montserrat padded now along the shore of an overrun creek, his coat almost flat across his broad-shouldered frame as the rain smoothed it down. He would glance now and then into the watery depths, appearing to keep an eye out for signs of fish there, but the water was in a cloudy rush, and anyone but a lifelong fisher would hesitate before attempting to catch anything in those waters. Not a skilled swimmer by any means, he was only considering this avenue of a hunt; having not yet come across a strip of the run that was thin enough for him to wade in.
 
As the creek started to travel out of the lowlands, the water started to grow calmer. The gargoyle paused before approaching, noticing a lupine-shape in the distance, that turned out to be another wolf, surveying the creek. It was a smaller creature than him, but he was no less wary of it. Piety turned to stone in the middle-distance, where he was, and looked on to see what the creature would get up to.