Felltree Marsh we're never even born

it is dismal land, as far as ingram cares to see it. but then again, one wolf's trash is another's treasure.

scarred muzzle lifts ever-so-slightly; minimally, towards the wind to take in the stranger's scents. no apparent pack scent lingers upon the air ...but then that meant little. the scent of the druids does not cling to him, in all fairness. to anyone who does not know better he will smell like any other wayfaring wanderer.

a soft noise of acknowledgement is given; morphing into one of gratitude for the warning. while he isn't sure what way his path will take — and does not plan to stay away from blackwater islands for longer than absolutely necessary — he bears the warning in mind.

did you get the name of their pack? ingram inquires, more out of curiosity than anything else.

the two exchanged word for a few moments longer before going their separate ways.