Duck Lake little dark age

He tried to find better luck. He found another wolf instead.

They were dun like the desert and patiently guarding a strip of lakeshore. Skífa lurched to a standstill as soon as he spotted him and dropped his head low. His scruff piled with barely raised hackles like porcupine quills, and he gnashed his teeth tentatively.

He almost chuffed with laughter. The stranger was just sitting there, like some kind of gargoyle. Sightseeing. Watching the ducks. Then he noticed a few of the birds had paddled closer, dark as driftwood, playing a game of chicken with the Mojave wolf. Closer than he'd ever managed to get to them. Skífa held his breath and crouched in the tangled snags of grass, leering at the fowl.

Closer, he thought; closer. He'd spring if the desert wolf didn't, but if the stranger made a move first... Skífa glanced at the other wolf with a thieving look in his eye.