Silver Creek holding your vast power

at first, the sound of approaching footfalls was lost to the blackthorn as he wrestled with the bass. it put up a valiant fight — managing to whack ailill in the muzzle with it's tail a few times — but in the end the beast won the match and plucks his limp prize from the water swirling with fresh blood. his or the fish's he isn't sure. it's easy to forget that unlike other fish that bass have teeth and are not afraid to use them in self-defense. it's only as he turns and begins to waddle out of the water and notices, for the first time with a start, that he isn't alone.

the woman is small and willowy, an agouti mixture of light grey, blonde cream and white. her eyes momentarily draw and hold his own gaze — he can't recall ever meeting someone with eyes a shade of purple before. he tosses the fish unceremoniously onto the bank with a small thud where in it's death it convulses and twitches, his attention drawn back to her at her compliment. his left ear draws back as he lets her words sink in. in truth, ailill much preferred bigger prey but he'd learned quickly after departing his natal pack that beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers. thanks, he says without much modesty. you can have it if you want. i was going to catch another one anyway. he indicates back to the water with a look and a small, sharp gesture of his muzzle.