Swiftcurrent Creek Wat's it gun' -- wat's it gunna be

At ten weeks old, Viinturuth was beginning to enter a gangly stage. His appearance had changed significantly from potato to something better resembling a wolf and although he was entirely unaware, his eyes had begun their transition from baby blue to an unusual burgandy. Guard hairs began to poke through the downy white of his shoulders, though these tougher furs did not match the alabaster of his infant pelt. They shimmered beneath the intensity of the Summer sun, curiously silver.

He'd been caught up in a came of tug-o-war with @Akavir when an unfamiliar voice rose from some distance away, and he dropped his share of the stick to prick his over-sized ears to listen. "Awooo," the boy mumbled, fighting the urge to join in with the stranger's song, though he was quick to return to the game as the tone faded. He yipped playfully at his litter-mate, raising a large paw to bat at his raven snout, before gathering the stick into his mouth to taunt him with playful growls.

From the corner of an eye, he spotted a figure of sand and crimson jog from the clearing, and he dropped his prize to focus his attention on this movement. Abandoning Akavir, the pallid youngster loped after his mother with a happily swishing little tail, trailing several yards behind her as she moved. Following her was a recent development, and one that Durnehviir was yet to disallow. When she stopped near a wolf he didn't recognise, Viinturuth padded up alongside his slender parent to gawk up with wide-eyed wonder.