Whitefish River Little White Fish

He was certain she would feel the same way. More often than not he would bump into familiar faces once he had gotten comfortable in a pack - Rusalka being the first long term after the failure that was Aristos. In time she should feel the same way, at least he thought so.

There are a few - he drawled on, thinking of all the scents he came across. New packs, old packs, things he heard of before and others never before. They seem to come and go. Hard to keep track of them all. 

A moment like this was rare, it wasn't often he sat here comfortably, talking to anyone without an ounce of frustration rising within him. Instead, he hasn't moved, simply laid there talking to the small pretty little thing who didn't seem disgusted by his scars, missing pieces or demeanor. He liked it.