Swiftcurrent Creek Amazon

i decided not to hog up your other thread, so i made us one instead

@Jet, your turn. River nudged the shadow among the paler bodies of sleeping siblings, rousing him for an earlier-than-usual outing. It was still dark out, a while before sunrise. The rest of you stay put, and I mean it, the motherwolf growled as all of them began to stir awake.

She took them out in shifts to train, one at a time, sometimes two, as all four at once had become a nightmare to corral. They all had something to say these days, and with differing opinions, it was difficult to stay on task or train them properly while concentrating on correcting four sets of inexperienced paws. They all knew the basics by this point, but now was the time to start putting their knowledge into practice.

We’re hunting today.

for one minute — or so that was how it felt — he'd been asleep, leg thrown over his eyes, nose buried into the fur and bone scrap he'd been worrying before falling asleep the night before and in the next he's being roused awake. he lets out a low grumble-groan but sleepily gets to his paws anyway.

dutifully, he follows behind river, wishing desperately he could catch a few more hours of sleep but trying to use the time heading towards they quarry ( for his mother informs him they'd be hunting today ) to try to wake up.

being a moody teenager about being the chosen one this morning for lessons was a distraction he couldn't afford. it held no place in the grand scheme of survival — and that was the realm that jet lingered in. survival.

what're we hunting? asks jet after a long moment, trying to get himself to focus.

You tell me, River prompted her drowsy son. Get sniffing. She wasn’t the type to handhold—and now more than ever it was important to hone their independence. Socializing was equally as important at this stage, but that was slow-going, which was to be expected of her feral brood. Better get used to rising before the sun, Stamp. Short for One-Wolf Stampede, a nickname he’d earned early on. This is when the good prey gets going.

his mother's answer, admittedly, was not the one that jet wanted. and the worst part was, he'd known better than to ask. still, he had and was met with her directive: get sniffing and the smart of disappointment that he'd set his own self up for. survival warring with being a typical teenager made for an ... interesting concoction.

he bows his head as he walks, picking up several scents right away. the creek's territory was ripe with them: ranging from small woodland critters to bigger prey. it was proverbial buffet wafting towards him.

he is torn between the scent of duck, leading him towards the creek and the scent of a raccoon; fresh, having passed thru the area they now walk very recently.

there's raccoon scent trail, real fresh, he states it aloud: simply for the fact of telling her that he was taking it more serious than his grumpy demeanor and soft, teenager perfected scowl might communicate. but the ducks like to rest along the creek bank. and it would be easier to catch them before they got into the water, especially as the days grew colder.

the raccoon might offer more meat. and with that his mind was made up, slotting the ducks as back up in case he failed to catch the raccoon.