Bitterroot Valley a head start in hindsight

Suspicion crawled across his face; he narrowed his eyes and studied the stranger more carefully. "Ate bad food," he answered. "Found it in a bog. Sheep, I think. Might have been. I don't really know. Gross, old. But at least it was food." The ghost of a grin flickered across his face, then disappeared. Slowly, his hackles settled down again, and he heaved something of a thin sigh from his chest. It was taxing enough to keep his guard and his wits up - if the other wolf was going to act cordial, Skífa was willing to relax a little. He was feeling too flushed and weedy to put on pretenses of strength, anyway. He gestured shamelessly at the wolf's face. "What happened to your eye?" If they were going to get to know one another, Skífa was going to push his curiosity and his boundaries as far as he could take them. If Skífa wasn't wrong, the other wolf must be half-blind. His eye was white as the moon and framed by scars.