Swiftcurrent Creek Blackfish

Winter, dreary as it was, at least had brought a blanket of quiet to the creek, just like the falling snow. They settled to day to day lives and for now, it seemed the group that had attacked them before was nowhere to be found—Akavir hoped they would stay away come the spring thaw, but for now, it was a welcome break.

The crooning howl of another spurned him forward. His pace quickened—own form more lean now in the harsher months, but remained cut from sinew and scar. His pale yellow eyes settled upon a youthful man—a myriad of colors, though it was the red tail that stuck out most to the Mayfair.

And then there was Moss—ever vigilant in her patrols—first upon him and questioning him.

Nearing, he uttered a low bark of greeting to signify his presence, and with the lift of his nose to the air in the direction of the other, brine and wood met his senses. Nothing of the ragtag group from before.