Whitebark Stream whitefang

The ravens called and the ravens came; the bear let them be for now. She payed them little mind as she ate her fill.

And yet there was something else there, behind the ever-present cawing and careful glares, the snapping of twigs and the rustle of snow that was very much not-raven. Mishka's ear twitched. A whine and the bear was suddenly alert, hackles beginning to raise as she turned her head. The Great Bear and her cubs slumbered, surely, and the otter had scarpered. So what was it?

A shape so small and low and white, she was sure the snow itself had grown legs. It drew closer and the bear let herself soften slightly. A wolf, a young one, gazed up at her pleadingly.

"Little one," she rumbled softly, "A meal is enjoyed better with company, no?" She was hesitant at first, but her stomach was full and there was little point in making enemies while Winter ruled. Should the wolf approach further, she would shift her body to allow him what was left of the fish.