Whitefish River graphite

Caught rather unexpectedly deep in someone else’s territory, Deimos isn’t sure where to stand. Suddenly it’s like all the dirt under his feet is taboo, and he’s shifting the weight off his paws quickly as possible as if on hot-top. 

The guy is friendly enough; he’s just territorial enough that his possession of the lands is stated, but there’s little hostility, luckily for Deimos. He looks a little more relaxed, maybe forgiving of Deimos’ unintentional slight, which makes Deimos feel his tension fade. Listening with a half tilted velvet lobe, Deimos learns that there’s a band of them settled, though size seems to not be a requirement. Deimos, ever a man that enjoys a joke, feels a grin fan across his features. Is that so? He quips, the grin spreading. What are the requirements? he’s been alone long enough to know the summer of his journey is coming to an end; if he stays a loner much longer, he knows he’ll run into trouble. Better to find a home now when he’s healthy and fit, versus begging at someone’s borders when he’s frail and destitute. Depending on this guy and his pack’s ideals, he might be a good fit... or not; there were enough crazy cultists around that Deimos isn’t going to dive in blind.