Whitefish River 'Cause if I could see your face once more, I could die as a happy man I'm sure

The burn of muscles at work, interacting with a pack-mate and doing what he loves best keeps Eve distracted from the cloud that hangs over his head. There, but he can ignore it easier. Round ears swerve alert, pleased by Isilmë’s interest.

Of course, he tries to say, and yet it is muffled around the mouthful of fish as the Count travels to a spot upon the shore to place the prize. He sets it at his feet—thick fur sobbing wet and dripping across the sand and grass—he sits, expectantly glancing towards the Page.