Swiftcurrent Creek People Talking Without Speaking

His return to the creek had been about as lonely as it had been when he had departed, and the bitter temptation to seek out the ranks of another pack was at the forefront of his mind. The patchwork of herbs from his wound had been shed now, the itch of healing skin and scabs causing the male to stop in his movement every so often and rub the length of his back along the ground, seeking any form of comfort—even better, leaving behind his scent with the promise that he would gather himself, and then work toward gathering others.

This was only a setback.

He sought to quench his thirst now—but the dark form of another caused him to stop abruptly.  Stiffening in mistrust, champagne eyes regarded the unknown wolf openly, waiting for when the drinking rogue would look up and see him.

Here, he could only hope, laid an opportunity, rather than another setback.