Swiftcurrent Creek A Visit

She grips the rattails with her teeth and places herself at Arric’s flank, eyes held low and wary, lest she inadvertently challenge a Creek wolf with her staring.

The ground is a bed of dried leaves, netted with the prints of varying kinsmen. She wonders about the wolves here, what kinds of rituals they observed, or if they have banded together for the mere convenience in doing so.

She draws a cursory glance at Arric’s profile when he speaks. He is hard and angular, like obsidian stone, but thoughtful in the eye as he surveys his grounds.

Her own words, lacking diplomatic tact, are carefully measured, testing each one in her head before permitting herself to speak them aloud.

“We are neighbors; I live in the valley. But I am from far North of here,” She explains, a slight muffling in her voice as the rattails draw against it. She thinks of an appropriate question to ask of him in return-  without being too nosey. “And you, Arric? How long have you run with the Creek?”