Bitterroot Valley is there even a way to tell them apart?

loamy banks that borders bitterroot valley offers him some purchase as he pulls himself from the qeya river. the early morning held a chill, painting the grasses with a soft layer of frost from the night before; not yet thawed. the river was colder yet. but it was refreshing, a startling jolt to push the last, stubborn vestiges of sleep from ezra.

a hearty shake is given to help speed the drying process, the sun warm along his back.

small breakfast of fish caught during his bath and tossed haphazardly to the banks — with the hope that they were not fortunate enough to flop back into the river — is made quick work of, bones and uneaten remnants hastily buried before tending to his duties of the day.

When he found him by the river, Ezra was already awake, the sound of fish bones cracking between his teeth breaking the stillness. The boy looked stronger than when Sega had first found him—less hollow, less lost. It stirred something like pride in the hunter’s chest.
He approached quietly, golden eyes flicking from the boy’s catch to the buried scraps in the loam. His voice came low, roughened by the cold air and the weight of habit.
You learn fast, Sega said, words shaped in his broken Common, but the meaning clear. River kind to you.
He stepped closer, lowering his head to drink from the shallows. When he straightened again, the look he gave Ezra was firm but not hard—an unspoken command to listen, to learn.
Today, Sega said, nodding toward the far stretch of the valley where elk tracks laced the frost, we hunt big. No fish. You watch. You follow.
A brief pause, a glint of something almost like humor behind the gold. You stumble, he added, I drag you home by tail.

for a moment ezra considers telling sega that he'd learned how to hunt small game — fish, birds, bird eggs whilst trying to take care of his ailing mother ... but he doesn't. his past was rife with tragedy and trails and tribulations. but it was that: his past. and he's been living in it for too long, wistful for the 'what if's' that haunt his every waking hour. so, the stoneson accepts the compliment with a small dip of his head, though admits with a slightly sheepish grin, the vater is cold and the fish have become lazy.

he'd had extraordinary luck to catch more than one.

ezra is quiet as he is given their task for the day: a big hunt that he was to watch and follow; low snort leaving the sonnenwaser at the humor that leaves his leader, following the amusing mental image of sega trying to drag him home by his tail for stumbling. you can try, rejoins the stoneson, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. i vill keep up. i von't stumble.

Sega’s ear twitched at the boy’s laughter, and for the briefest moment, the corner of his scarred muzzle curved in return. It was not often that humor lived long in the valley, but the sound of it—Ezra’s—was a thing he did not mind keeping.
He turned his gaze toward the far ridge, where frost still clung to the grass and the faint, deep prints of elk crossed the soil. Cold water make strong hunter, he said, voice rough but steady. You learn to take what land give.
Golden eyes flicked back to the red-streaked boy, sharp and assessing but not unkind. You have good eyes, Sega continued, pausing long enough to let the weight of his words carry. See before others see. That keep you alive.
He stepped past him then, shoulders rolling beneath his pale coat, he nodded toward the open valley. You follow close. You quiet. Wind is friend, not voice. A brief grunt followed, almost amused. If you stumble… I still drag you home. Maybe both tails, this time.
And with that, the older hunter moved out into the morning light, the scent of elk and snow curling around them like a promise.

mhm, replies ezra when sega mentions he learns to take what the land gives him. he is intimately familiar with that: having had to learn too young that the land could be merciful or cruel.

the compliment about his eyes: sharp and noticing was also attributed to growing up too fast. with his mother's wasting illness that only progressed as they moved through the wilds, trying to escape her ex and family that had spurned them had given ezra no choice. he'd had to learn, to keep himself and his mother alive.

even if, he thinks with a pang of grief despite his best attempt to move on from it, trying to help her had only been a battle he was destined to lose.

i grew up quick. ezra offers, haunted, there for a heartbeat and gone in the next.

i still say i vould like to see it. snorts the stoneson, amused, as he follows sega into the morning light; steps surefooted as he keeps close to his leader.