The Sentinels Tempest-tossed and Seasick

His tail swished at his hocks as he went along with the white-furred fellow—who chirped away as Tahoe searched for scents. There was nothing substantial to be found, only the meager trail of a suspected vole. He followed the scent for the sake of it, perhaps it would lead to something more. A vole would be better than nothing.

Despite appearing focused elsewhere, he paid attention to his counterpart's chatter. He talked about self-doubts, as well as finding acceptance. McBride himself had no basis to give advice on such matters—to him, seriousness meant stability. In the stranger's case, he seemed to desire the opposite. Tahoe could imagine that'd be a rare group to find. Most packs wouldn't want their new recruit to befriend every stranger which stumbled upon their borders. As for appearance, If a pack were to judge based solely on that, it'd come as a surprise to him. He glanced over and imparted a few words anyway. 

You look fine. Prob'ly too friendly. He said, quite bluntly. Not intended to be rude, but straightforward. 'Gotta choose friends wisely. Some'll pull the wool over your eyes; you won't expect it.