Heron Lake Plateau I'm allowed a phone call... And a beer.

To a certain point, Quixote had pretty much given up on catching birds -- besides, certain other wolves were putting enough of a dent in their populations, he'd just try to catch other stuff.  Like fish.  He was giving it a go at least, wading up to his elbows and trying to spot something to chomp.  He must have been really obvious doing so, because he certainly wasn't seeing much here even though he was sure there were fish in the damn lake -- he'd seen enough herons gobble up small ones.

The fact that every time he took a step to try to find a better position or the like, a cloud of dirt and grime floated up to cloud the water more didn't help at all.  It was frustrating.  All he wanted to do was to catch some food, have a snack, bring something back later but things didn't enjoy cooperating.  Maybe he should stick to things with fur and leave it at that.  His ears flicked back on his head, and somewhere in deeper waters, a duck quacking at him sounded more like he was being laughed at.  Quixote shot the damn bird an accusatory glare, then trudged through the water to a slightly different part of the lake to continue his search.

Raven and Quixote. Raven, Quixote. Quixote, and Raven. He was running their names through his head over and over to get them right, and roaming the territory on a hunt — not exactly for them, but it was an important thing to do at some point today and he kept it at the back of his mind. Raven, a new mother and the alpha female, black fur. Quixote, her mate, also with black fur and never very far from her. Niamh had explained some things as she escorted him across the boundary. It played on repeat in his head.

But he couldn't be distracted. If he was going to get very far with his plan, he would have to be useful. Ambrose was drawn to the lake more often than not, and had been scouring it for small morsels to collect for a fresh cache (he was thinkig of frogs and fish rather than the obvious birds), when he spotted a dark figure — and heard the incongruent sound of a quacking duck like laughter on the wind. He deviated so that their paths would intercept, and came up alongside him.

Hey — he called out, but then paused, because the stranger was walking in the water, and didn't look too happy. Which one was this? Male, black fur, hates birds — Quixote. Can I help? Whatever the guy was doing, it didn't seem very effective. Ambrose kept that to himself.

So this was Niamh's brother, right?  Making vague assumptions about what would happen behind the scenes, it seemed likely that Ambrose would have been mentioned at some point.  Maybe.   Either way, Quixote was not making much progress, Eh, just fishing.   Or trying to.  It's not cooperating, really.  Maybe I should stick to things with four legs.  He shrugged and trudged back to shore.

There were some proper introductions and a bit more discussion and troubleshooting about the lake fish -- likely ending with them deciding that they were probably pretty small given the fact they were kind of trapped by a not-insignificant waterfall.  Maybe Quixote should just stick to the rivers -- stuff might be more significant there.  Anyway, eventually they decided to head off on their respective duties, with Quixote deciding a patrol would be far less frustrating.