Gone fishin' (as if she'd bait a hook)

Movement on the opposite bank catches her eye and she scans it before her gaze falls on a distinctive blue and red marked man. She wonders if he is related to any of the other space marked wolves she has encountered (but never quite made the connection between). Her expression is disinterested, her tail not twitching in greeting nor her lips parting to yell out a greeting over the din of rushing water. No matter, he is across a raging river and thus, beyond worrying about. If he had ill intentions she could be long gone before he made the crossing. And it didn't look like those wings would lend themselves to swimming through currents that strong if he did try.

Her attention turns back to the eroded banks, the crowding river birch trees, lush bunches of watercress where the current seemed to be less extreme (little pockets sheltered where their banks had fallen away to raise the riverbed). There were rushes and alders, poplars, and sycamores. Their roots helping to stabilize the soil where they reached, though some stretched exposed into the open air, before diving down into the raging waters below. She imagined they would serve well as nurseries for all the little fish, trying to eke out a living long enough to become big fishes.

Modesty followed the bank towards the east, where the sweet scent of decaying fruit indicated the orchard she had been considering as good forage. It seemed worth further investigation, and perhaps the river narrowed enough somewhere that crossing might be an option. If this place was on the list of potential territories, that would be worth knowing.

“Speech.”