Lost Creek Hollow we all feed on tragedy

When invited warmly in, Akavir’s gaze shifted for a moment to his sister, muzzle dipping down to nudge her gently on the shoulder. She was quiet, but attentive, and Akavir could appreciate that for now—at least until they had a handle on what their neighbors were truly like. Silvertongue, as far as he could tell, was a far cry different in personality than the humbling man before him, who’s very nature screamed gentle and uncertain.

“Thanks,” he offered, his own tone hushed in a way. He began to follow after the  Riverclan wolf, eyes seeking past the dark man and to his home. “Silvertongue mentioned the want for forming an alliance between our packs—I was hoping to discuss that more, and what expectations Riverclan has.” He paused, his gaze roaming back to the tripod. “I also wanted to let you know we had a recent report of the gang of wolves we had a run in with earlier being around the area—but so far, our scouting endeavors have come up empty handed. It seems like they moved further out… Or, that’s our hope, at least.” He assumed Silvertongue had mentioned the mongrels—perhaps he shouldn’t have.