Lost Creek Hollow we all feed on tragedy

His muzzle canted lightly to the sound of the man speaking—the Riverclan leader’s eyes seemed rapt upon him, and Akavir idly wondered if it was that the wolf didn’t trust him—or, if by nature, it was more of his timid mannerism. His eyes drifted to the way Crowfeather remarked at himself, lingering upon the fact three legs was what his vision would meet.

He contemplated that—he had never trained nor battled a wolf on three legs before, but a light frown clouded his visage regardless, mostly in the way the man seemed to so quickly label himself as unteachable in that manner. “I would think anyone could learn some basic maneuvers,” he offered, trying to remain delicate of the topic yet tactful. “My Beta, Arric, would probably also be happy to figure out tactics that would work best for anyone.”

Just as he would, himself.

He was relieved to hear the man’s agreement in terms of the valley—it could remain a rather peaceful and solid place for generations of each pack to remain, if they maintained it properly, and he felt the ease in his shoulders, the hint of a smile tracing his lips. “I trust you’re word, Crowfeather.”


Then, a lick of his lips. Broaching the next topic. "We have little ones coming to the creek closer to the spring. But with no midwife or healer, would it be possible that one of your clan visit to look over the mother?"