Qeya River I was following the pack

he follows him.

then, blackfell stops at the water’s edge, lowering head to drink. the yearling is saatsine, by scent, but no name comes to mind—obviously, since blackfell hasn't met him yet.

he watches for a moment, sizing him up. lean, but not frail. something distant about his gaze, like he's halfway between this world and another.

the raven perched above caws loudly, wings rustling in irritation at the silence. blackfell huffs. he steps forward and begins to kick dirt back at the annoying bird.