Larkcall Lowlands turning tables

Where have all the good guys gone?

Odin Archer

Odin had never really been a fan of hunting alone, he could manage small game if he had to but he was generally too slow to do much more than scavenging without a pack to back him up. His tail waved at the mention of fishing, "Yeah, there's a little lake at the bottom of the Monadnock and I've caught some small stuff in there, nearly gave ma a heart attack every time she caught us in there though. The first time she tried fishin' she got a catfish barb in th' lip an' the second th' fish was bigger'un she was an' it fought back," he was laughing by the end of it, he'd heard the tale told so many times that he could visualise it as if he were right there. "So she stays outta th' fishes water an' expects them ter stay outta her den." Not that that had ever particularly worked in her favour with Kara and Odin as children. Their poor mother had woken to a fish on her head just as many times as the rest of them.

But it wasn't fish he could smell right now. It was something redder, laced with the familiar scent of cousin canines. "Hey, you smell that?" his stomach gurgled in response. He was a growing boy yet and his mother often accused him of having a hole in the bottom of his leg. He had begun to walk towards the scent without looking to see if the other wolf was following. He wasn't one to willingly pass up a free meal.