Whitefish River Honeycomb

Perhaps Valtýr should have felt a small fire if indigence burn in his gut - the want to retort and state that he was a teenager now and hardly in need of a babysitter. However, the Sveijarn was but a lamb and lacked the daring self-assurance most adolescents found innate. He ducked his head and smiled meekly towards the tawny she-wolf, bronze eyes flicking over the many marks on her pelt. "O-oh, I do?" he bumbled nervously, narrow body crumpled over in a stance of deference, "I was just following the river. My home isn't far. It's just there... you see?" Valtýr motioned over his shoulder towards the Plateau in the distance, its rise ascending the horizon.

His gaze turned back to the vagrant. "Are you alone, too?" the firstborn asked tentatively.