Whitefish River Pale Underbelly

Marcus melted at how polite and ready to learn this kid was. The melt was a symptom of paternal instincts kicking in. He knew that these were moments he had looked forward to with his own son, and although they had been ripped away from him, the man felt grateful that he would be able to live out some version of his dream today. Whatever Gods there were above that pulled his strings, they were kind on this afternoon.

His broad red head lowered as his own yellow eyes searched to meet Wicken's down cast ones, a silent encouragement for the boy to lift his head and meet his gaze. "What else am I going to do with all of this knowledge." A wide grin reflected how proud Marcus was of that awful joke. Dad humor. It was good medicine for a broken heart.

Craning his head now over the water, he watched as naturally all of the fish in the vicinity scattered. "You want to position yourself over the water first. The less distance you have to lunge, the more likely you will get to the fish before it swims away. Give yourself about this far away from the surface." Making sure the lanky boy was still watching, Marcus looked back to him, then flicked his snout back to it's previous position to show how far he was hanging his head over the river. "The current is usually weaker nearest the shore, so you'll get some pretty slow stragglers floating around here. Be as still as possible and try not to make a sound. They will return, and when they do, find one you can focus on." As foretold, they returned. "Go fish." He parted his maw first to ready the catch, then not a second later lunged into the cool water. It was always a shock, no matter the season, to get a face full of water. Invigorating. 

Turning to Wicken with his catch, the man gestured to the water in front of him. You're turn.