Go to the stream, he says. Gather roots from the watertails. So I'm to be an errand-runner? Who does he think he is, anyways? He doesn't even have a proper name. Lizardbait shaman. I hope he doesn't expect me to give up mine...
What was that noise?
The plains-dwelling wolves are not at home in the forest. The close-set trees mean they can't see very far. Alarming sounds go unidentified. The smells are thick and overpowering. The sensory overload takes a lot of getting used to. So naturally, little brother is jumpy.
I've decided to name him Farre. Two syllables, 'Fah-RE.' It's not the hardest-to-pronounce name I've ever come up with, sadly.
