Whitebark Stream The world will be just fine.

Kiyoshi loved the shadows as much as he loved the sun. Ever since momma had brought them outside, he made a constant run between the den and the little patch of safe ground outside the burrow, chasing light patches, tousling in the darkness, or enticing his brother for a little rough and tumble between that sparser ground between the daylight and the underground.

Kiyoshi loved the wilds as much as he loved the nest, and every day, he edged a little bit further, by a little bit further from the denning site, wooed by that sense of brazen risk that stirred in many a young samurai's heart, not yet tempered by the learned fires of respect, and self-control.

Today found him tempting boundary again. In his growing vocabulary, he was beginning to understand bits and pieces of the grand tales of regale his mother told them sometimes at night, about wolves who fought with purity of the sun, and wolves who ran through the shadows as if they were one with them.

He wanted a part of this reality, and in his make believe, he pretended to be one of them. One of the brave ones, who hunted the shadow-lurkers and battled them out of the darkness. The strangers happened upon the densite in the midst of his battle.

With a puppy-like growl, the mighty Kiyoshi spilled from the veil of shrubbery with a tangle of leaves clamped between his paws -- a stick, that had fallen from a nearby tree the night before, and which had quickly become his enemy upon discovery of its dastardly trip-wire ways. The stick scuffed the ground, and the little draconid wormed his way along the ground with a writhing twist, and turned, in time for bright eyes to fall upon the strangers.

Kiyoshi fell still, and stared with an owlish blink from his sideways vantage on the ground, and cupped his ears toward the trio, tiny jaws still half-grasping at the stick, and little heart filled with curiosity and a dangerously low level of fear.