Swiftcurrent Creek The currents are fast but life is sweet

Frederick had been sitting at his usual spot by the creek, nosing his pelt, occasionally dipping his snout and paws into the stream to tackle some particularly stubborn imperfections. A clean pelt is a healthy pelt, his mother had always said. And it stuck with him. To be neat and tidy was his mothers' mantra.

The announcement of another, though, caught his attention. His head jerked quickly, ears swivelling to the stranger. Obviously they were a packmate, but Frederick couldn't help but be startled. Oh, hello, he cleared his throat, turning so he could face the woman before he rose to his paws. It's a pleasure, Arlette.

Perhaps he had heard the name in passing. Or maybe it was the fact that they were in the same pack. He hummed for a moment. Good, I think, he said with a nod. Lestan proves to be a friendly face. The man smiled, then, thinking to the oaken fellow who had recruited him in the first place.

Morwenna and Etienne are good, too. Leonore doesn't seem to like me, though, but I'm not too offended. Fred chuckled at the recount of the boisterous pup. She had a faint milk-scent about her. One from a season ago, he assumed. And yet it lingered. I don't mean to assume, he started, careful. But is she yours?

He could see a similarity if so. Both light in pelt. She, actually, matched his own pure-whiteness. Well, it was about time that he met someone with an ivory pelt like his own.