Swiftcurrent Creek He’s a unicorn with a single horn, he has a cup of tea in the early morn

Moss—in pure Moss fashion—kept a shrewd gaze upon the stranger and leaned forward, crackling something beneath a heavy, well-placed paw. A stolen glance to the noise revealed spare tufts of feathers, and Akavir steeled his gaze once more upon the scout named Scout, concealing his amusement for now.

He studied the other—there was no reason to distrust him just yet—his questions proving to be something he didn’t mind sharing. “No particular trades, no particular focus. We want to uphold the valley we reside in as a place of peace and work with the other packs in our land—a haven, of sorts, I suppose.” Then, there was a pause, and a a darker smile teased at his lips. “We also don’t shy away from a battle or fight when it’s presented.” As, he felt, should be obvious by the scars that marred him.

“I’d say feel free to ask the last rogue crew that tried to pull something. But I threw the ringleader in the creek and the others limped their way out of here.”

It sounded like a bluff. He straightened—eyes fast upon the youth. Sometimes, Akavir did wish it was a bluff.