Whitefish River Pale Underbelly

Wicken felt a small pit in his stomach build up beside the ball of hunger that already resided there. It became a lead ball rooting him beneath the foliage with a conviction that even a mountain could not move in that moment lest he himself move from underneath the bush. Ever since he had received his wounds, the gaze of another was enough to send him into a fearful spiral, and this occasion was no different. 

His dark ears pinned tightly to his head, and he cast his yellow gaze to the dirt just as soon as it met the strangers own yellow eyes. He moved them away quickly enough that he missed the strangers stature, and he found himself unsure of their intentions. Wicken had not expected to be addressed, but it encouraged him to curl in on himself in a tight ring. His muscles ached with the small effort it took to maintain, but he kept up the tensed position in the event he needed to flee. Although life was hard, he was not yet ready to die. An optimistic pessimist until the very end.

He also found the position uncomfortable with his ribs jabbing into his hind haunches. Had he really lost that much weight? No... His tone was polite and curt, but it easily gave away his youthful age. Although there was much to be desired, Wicken left it at that. He had only been on the river for a handful of days to regain his strength before he would set off again. He willed that perhaps this stranger would leave him to his devices to do just that, but he knew it was a fools game to assume a wolf could read his mind.