Qeya River theory of a deadman

Autumn was upon these lands, Nevermore knew it by the dip in the temperatures, in which could previously be considered hot only weeks prior. It was just in it's early stages but soon the swarthy DeMonte knew, the world would reflect the deep colors of Fall as the world around them slowly went into hibernation for the coming winter. He was close to his fourth winter, and though short in the long run of things Nevermore had seen plenty of things. Though he was far from finished with living life to it's fullest. Still, he wore his ordeals, the proof of his survival in the empty eye socket the flesh marred around it. There were other scars, of course, though those remained hidden by ink colored fur. He wasn't pretty to look at, which was perhaps why Adyssa had split from him. He was a war dog, not much of a family man to begin with. To claim he had walked away from her with a devastated heart would have been a lie. She had been as much of a trophy as he'd been when they had first met before the war between the packs had broken out.  He should have stayed out of it, he recounted now as he looked back upon it. Yet, he hadn't. 

Once more Nevermore had taken to wandering. It was what he did best, he supposed. Move like a phantom from place to place so long as nothing formed to tie him there. If he did not get attached then he did not feel guilty for ghosting on. Wanderlust was not something unknown to those of his family, admittedly, and it'd been something he'd had ever since he'd been young enough to venture out upon his own, usually with his sister Poe in tow. He hadn't seen her in years, nor her raven Edgar and wasn't even sure that she still lived.

He shifted where he lay upon the bank of the Qeya River, large body stretching out to catch the sun's rays a bit better. With ears raised in alert listening for any approach he closed his only eye, enjoying his stolen moment of rest.

Having made it out of a near death scenario with just torn up front paws and a swath of missing pelt from the top of his head all the way to his shoulders, he counted himself lucky and yet foolish at the same time.

Hunger gnawing at him, he had pounced the nearest living thing and caught himself a plucky pheasant. Eating half of the bird without even tasting the meat. He could no longer ignore the aching of his bloody paws and he stole his way toward the waters edge to soak them while he finished his prize. 
Without a pack his body was a precious resource he had to protect at all cost, as a lone wolf one injury could mean death.

As Rowen limped to the waters edge, he spared a glance toward the stranger and made a slight detour to give the strange wolf a wider berth before he dipped his paws into the water with a audible 'ahhh' Only then did he continue his meal.

Though he did not look toward the other wolf he was hyper aware of the strangers every movement ready to leap away and protect himself if he had too.