Razorback Ridge Put me back in my grave

A senseless kill? Mojag could not fathom that. Anything killed could be put to use, and there must have been something that drove the man to do so—perhaps a latent hunger? Even a bloodlust could be explained, as they were wild things and sometimes the spirit did move a wolf to chase. Of course, people often grew out of such behaviors—maybe this man was a younger one.

Mojag looked to the fox as the man spoke, understanding that it would make a fine pelt and being reminded immediately of his sister, Ajei, who could work wonders with it. Then named Noctaryn then asked for assistance, and Mojag tried to pull from his memory anything that might be of immediate aid.

There is nothing wrong with the pursuit of comfort! He answered, noticing the way the other wolf tried to cover his truth.

He had not learned much about furs, really. He could recall being a very young boy, and being given over to Kukutux from time to time, or one of her daughters, to be minded while his mother hunted, or patrolled, or worked; this was before Ajei. He knew furs needed to be chewed, and that was often a good job for a teething child.

Are you a patient man? It takes patience as well as skill to pull the fur free. I know that after, if soaked and let to dry, it can be worked in to something—but it is the initial removal that takes the most time. He is thoughtful as he says this, roaming down a memory in his mind. Then, he offers: I have a sister who is exceptional with furs.

Perhaps if this stranger did not want to do the work, something else could be arranged. However, Mojag would not fault a person for wanting to learn things for themselves.