Porcupine Ridge sweet nothings,

His companion was wordy again—though his attention was captured at the invitations et before him. Learning to hunt. He had never been allowed prior—the bison would have crushed him, assured his mother. After they left the stretch of grass to the gathering in the glen, there had been elk hunts—again, much too large and dangerous for him to even watch.

Surreptitiously, he studied the man fully then—scarred—large. His muzzle canted lightly, green eyes sharpening. “Hunt what?” Suspicion filled him—almost outweighing the eagerness at not caring.