Whitefish River Pale Underbelly

Wicken settled himself into a laying position with a smoky head resting upon paws that mirrored the same coloration. Their amber eyes held enlarged pupils that took in his surroundings with a childlike gusto. They observed the river before shifting to the building thunderheads in the vast expanse of the sky that had just surpassed the mountains from the east. Perhaps a symbolic image of how Wicken had outrun his very own storm from the same direction. The entire time he appeared disinterested to those unfamiliar with the intricate workings of his mind, but he was thoroughly exploring how he could answer Marcus. A question was only fair after he had pried himself.

I am from the east, but there is nothing left for me there. I think I will be heading as far west as the wind carries me until I am forced back, or perhaps I will run across others that might enjoy some company. The trip will be easier now that I will not have to travel hungry. The silvery words were one more tip of the hat to the appreciation he felt for the hunting lessons. They had never been taught self sustaining qualities in their birth pack, and it had been a major point of fear for Wicken until he was forced to leave. He felt the independence now. Relished in the feel of the cold wind from the storm rolling in from the mountain with a full stomach to keep him warm.