Swiftcurrent Creek It's difficult to say what's luck and what's not.

Moss’s death was akin to a storm cloud that hung over the creek. Akavir worked along the borders, noting that the scent of their fallen packmate became more stale with each passing day—knowing that soon, it would simply vanish altogether… as if she hadn’t been here at all.

It was surreal—and it left him with the bitter taste of grief in his mouth.

When his eyes fell upon the form of a dark wolf testing the scents upon the ground, he found himself bristling lightly—uttering a chuff that bordered a growl as he moved closer, though he tried to force some of the tension from his shoulders as he neared the stranger.

It would do no good to take his ire out on an innocent bystander.

“Can I help you?”