Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

It necessitated more active listening than he normally employed to understand the man, but Catamaran felt sure that this difficulty would fade given a little time. He was less certain about how quickly he would grow used to the forest pack's ways — there was not much spirituality in his home pack, even if the reverential tone that Sólhárr employed when speaking of this women's space was familiar to him.

Another quiet cluck marked his thoughtfulness as a question was turned on him — perhaps the first true show of personality from the bounty hunter.

"Blackmouth is a matriarchal pack," he explained without much inflection, though his voice was not quite so rote when he spoke in this tongue. "But they do not stand much on tradition. My grandmother, Moorhen, still rules in that land. Her daughters are many. They guard the bay jealously, and make war with any who draw too near. Men are rarely accepted."

His coral gaze was cast briefly upward when they entered the deeper shade of the trees. The density of the canopy made him just a little uncomfortable, but he was not an overly anxious creature.

"I am the son of Auk. My father was a bounty hunter before me — fathering my litter was his payment for the slaying of a panther that had been eating other wolf cubs in the area. My sisters still reside at Blackmouth. It is a place for warrior women. Men are only allowed to visit."

He had been a man for nearly two years, by now.

"Aside from pantherblood, I carry the name of Cairn-Corten. I hear that this name still lives on this side of the Elysian mountains. The former are warriors, too. The latter are healers and guardians. All of them are sea wolves."

As was he, at heart. But he rarely thought about what he was anymore.