Whitefish River but even if we won't admit it to ourselves

His irritated sulking along a herd trail had brought little result, at least until a young but fierce creature crossed his path. Scars littered his pelt to suggest his experience in conflict and Ryzhov’s eyes gleamed analytically as he came closer. The question came, a deep voice that brought a mere hum from the Russian as he weighed how he might respond. “Something of the sorts.” He responded, accent thickly carrying with the seriousness of his own mission lingering in his tone. The boy had promise.
 
He was clearly no stranger to conflict. “If you count hunting for recruits as hunting, then perhaps.” He mused once more, though truthfully the venture had been less about finding more men for Virion to boss around and more about getting away to clear his own head and level his own thoughts out before returning to be the good little soldier he was expected to be. His loyalty to his friend was unwavering, and he would not allow petty moments of discontent affect his loyalty in any way.
 
“And you? Were you following the game trail as well?” He posed once more, the analysis carrying over the scowl that Ryzhov could not decipher between discontent or general pissyness that he could appreciate out of a wolf. A wolf whose natural state was to smile could simply not be trusted.