growing gills

As Rhyme made his way to the beach blue and lavender eyes fell on a vaguely familiar form. He had an odd feeling of negativity as he watched the pale wolf settle into a fishing stance. The slate alpha racked his brain as the wind shifted slightly and brought the scent to him. Oh. He’d seen him at the battlefield the day of the shit storm. Dark brows furrowed as he refused to indulge the memory and made his way slowly to the shore. Just because it was dark out didn’t mean the fish wouldn’t be frightened by movement.

He offered a quick nod to the beast, from his scent it seemed he’d ascended from slave to alpha. Rhyme had to believe he was an impressive wolf for that to happen. Rhyme decided on his own place a few meters down the beach. With quiet and patience Rhyme would wait for the most opportune moment to strike violently at the water with his sharp teeth as opposed to the albino’s paw trick. Rhyme got a bit more wet, but being able to sink his teeth into the fish seemed the sure way to catch it.