Bitterroot Valley ∟∟ móki

Seven, there were.

Reminded him so much of home.

Good people, he said. Strong and kind. See, that was different, Barrett knew. The people he knew hadn't been good. Good to him, maybe. Protected eachother. But protecting was all the good they could do in a world full of thievin' and killin'. Sounds like yer proud, he said. Good. And he gave a nod, before picking at the carcass.
Good people. He thought again. Eyes focused forwards as he ate. The right wolves, rather than many wolves. Wolves, he heard. That's what he was. Not a beast. A wolf. And he stopped eating; looked at his paws. Took a breath. Tried to force some sort of... acceptance, within himself. Looked up to Sega. Band-chief.
Thank'ya, he said, standing. Fer alla this, but he was yet to leave. Instead, he stood, for a moment, thinking. Contemplating. And carefully, he said: Can I, eh, see where y'all make yer beddin'? Trying to be nonchalant about it.

A desperate man, he was, as much as he may try to hide it.