Whitefish River Paranormal whacktivity

A masculine voice answered him, though Peregrine couldn't place it, nor make sense of the dryly sarcastic response. My best friend? The black fur along his spine prickled and he thrust his muzzle in the direction he thought the voice had come from, nostrils flaring now. He half-feared he might drown as he sucked thick mist into his nostrils, yet he didn't so much as cough. He discerned a slight scent and suddenly it clicked.

"You creepy little fuck," he murmured to himself. He knew it wouldn't carry to the other's ears, not in this dense fog. Louder, he said, "Are you creeping on me or something? First you came skulking around on a dark and rainy night and now you're scurrying around in the fog. What's your deal, deadeyes?" He didn't know where the nickname came from, yet it definitely fit.