Whitefish River It's a beautiful and a burning thing

He could tell that she did not like the subject, or perhaps how dark it had gotten in such a short time. That was life, though. If she did not like the idea that fire wrought destruction and chaos, it did not change the fact. Wolves were the same, though he did not wish to point this out to the female. They hunted and killed with little to no regard for the life of a prey animal, and often took the lives of other wolves without much remorse. That was to say, not all wolves were of that breed, but he had not met many who could say that they had not acted on natural instinct when faced with the opportunity. They were animals, wild to the very core of their beings. So, Kierkegaard opted not to respond to any more of her comments about the fire for fear that the flames within his own body would begin to consume. A question was poised next that caused the male to flick his ears forward and tilt his head just slightly to the left. She had inquired as to whether or not he would be staying in the area. Now, whether that meant the entire expanse of the Teekons or the river where she had found him was not clear. A stretch of silence seemed to slip between them and the whiskers on his muzzle twitched slightly. “Yes,” he answered her, blunt but good enough to satisfy her curiosity.