NEVER GOT USED TO BEING ALONE
After a day or two of lingering at the bottom of the waterfall, and the large puddle it made, Marsh had decided to do some proper exploration.

To his pleasant surprise, he came across a very serene little oasis, tucked away in the rocky face that the waterfalls crashed over. It was very close to the falling water - you could never stop hearing it - but somehow it seemed private, safe. As seemed to be the case with Marsh and pretty little pockets of land like this, he happened upon it entirely by chance, and decided to remain for a while.

Besides, the little trek had made him thirsty, and what better excuse to sit down for a bit?

The view from up here was amazing, though Marsh's mind tended towards the practical rather than the artistic; he saw an opportunity to watch the world below, even though his eyes were not strong enough to see as far as he would like. All the water in the air didn't help his nose, being full of that sterile smell, though a good wind in the right direction would fix that. He was pretty sure he'd be able to sense anyone coming.

For now, he simply wanted to enjoy the water; going as deep as his elbows, he lapped at the water of the pool and played with the surface tension with his nose, his tail wagging gently behind him at the idle, childish amusement.
BUT SOMETIMES, SOMETIMES IT AIN'T SO BAD

YOU MAKE THE MOST OF THE HAND YOU GET DEALT
It was easy to lose track of time when you had no real commitments to keep. Marsh had dwelt for some time when his mind wandered, and he begun to consider leaving this high-up place again. Would he be able to find his way back down the winding path? Most likely; he could follow his own smell, for one. Even if he got lost, though, it would be no big tragedy.

Still, the view from up here was something else, but in order to experience it properly - with his head hanging over the edge - he had to carefully find a dry piece of rock which wasn't too close to the rushing water. It would be all too easy to slip and fall and be taken over, and though he could swim, he really didn't fancy his chances at easily surviving a trip with a waterfall. It wasn't even that tall, here, but - but still.

As he stared over the edge, the pool of water below clearly in focus (it was fascinating looking at familiar landmarks from an unfamiliar point of view) he began to realise that he was hungry, and his eyes and ears were automatically searching for potential meals. Damn, but he could see that herd in the distance, and his belly rumbled at the thought of such a beautiful feast. Alas, it would take luck of epic proportions for a wolf on his own to score such a catch, but - wait, what was happening?

He could not clearly see the cause, but the deer had suddenly bolted in that familiar, instinctual fashion, and it was curious to watch, detached as he was; his own instincts were to crouch down and wait for his turn to rush forwards, but this was not his hunt, and he was far too far away to do any good. Besides, it may be anything; a pack, a big cat, a silly small cat, or -

There! The unmistakable sight of a wolf, but alone. It gave up near to the pool, the Bramble Falls, and Marsh resented the fact that the wind was working entirely against him; rather than rush up to his nose, it flowed over the edge just like the water, and his eyes were not as useful as his nose. It didn't stop him from watching, however, and it seemed as though the loner's attention was drawn to something else. Marsh's instincts were to keep out of sight, to avoid unnecessary conflict, but as he watched it seemed as though the wolf was following the trail he had before. Was it scenting him, perhaps? Why would it be curious? That was a silly question; Marsh would have done the exact same thing. What would he do, though? Wait for the loner to find the path up the cliff, up the incline, and happen upon this grotto? Go down and meet it? In the end, Marsh chose the lazy option; it was pleasant up here, if a bit of a dead-end, but he would rather be prepared. As such, he placed himself by the pool and sat, watching the very spot he had emerged, expecting - should the wolf be following his scent - for his pursuer to appear there eventually.
YOU HAVE TIME TO WAIT

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD YOU SEE
Quite spectacularly, the plan actually worked. How often did that happen?

Marsh had not been aware that the wolf had seen him, but there was an expectant wariness in the other's eyes - female, young, loner, healthy - which implied that she was just as prepared for this as Marsh. Intriguing. So she had known he would be here, and that she wasn't chasing a dead trail? Marsh supposed his scent would have been heavy (hardly a surprising thing, though, he had spent several days by these waterfalls) and her curiosity understandable. So, here he was.

The wonderful and fascinating thing was that she didn't speak.

Marsh hadn't grown up to expect talk; his mother rarely put two words together, let alone direct any at any of her offspring. His father, his siblings, they were all much the same. It seemed as though the rest of the world did not live as simply - but no, it wasn't simple, it was just different. Marsh found it easier to read intentions through the body, through his nose, than through words - and things like histories and stories and fanciful nonsense was just... nonsense. What bearing did all that have on real life?

But she didn't speak.

It felt a little uncomfortable to be sat as he was - it was easier to protect yourself standing up - but something compelled Marsh to remain as he was. He had already 'beaten' her by waiting for her, and watching her approach. He was the headlight, not the deer. Seconds passed, and she still said nothing, and Marsh felt a tickle of appreciation run down his spine. Turning his head slowly, he gave her a good, long, deliberate look, assessing this potential threat to the best of his rather excellent abilities. She had no obvious scars, which was easily explained - she was young yet - but there was something fierce about her manner, the look in her eyes, which told you not to underestimate her.

Not that Marsh made a habit of underestimating anyone. That was dangerous.

At length, he had to stand; it would not serve to properly take her in like this, he needed to be closer. Under no notion that these were his lands, he chose not to take any dominant stance, and let his tail wag loosely behind him as he approached, ears pricked and head level. He begun his wide circle around her, his nose always the closest thing to her body, and simply watched, inhaling her very being.

Who needs words to break a silence?
WE WHO ARE MASTERS OF OUR OWN

OUR VERY ESSENCE IT SPEAKS VOLUMES
The beautiful silence continued, and Marsh found himself slipping into almost nostalgic times. It had easily been years since an encounter had been as easy as this.

He saw the shifts in her weight, the way she followed him with her eyes and ears. Sensible, of course; he would expect nothing less. She submitted to his investigations, offering no resistance whilst displaying no obvious vulnerability; he would make sure not to abuse this sense of trust. She almost seemed to relax under the scrutiny, and such calmness was certainly appreciated. He put her to memory, this fascinating creature, and eventually finished his slow circle, coming to a stop in front of her once more. He couldn't decide if he recognised any of the scents on her body; he had been in this place too long now, the stench of loners and the distant packlands drifted to him from all directions and they were all vaguely familiar. Maybe it was time to move on - or maybe it wasn't, for this exact reason. When was the last time he had felt so comfortable in a region? He had a good thing going with these waterfalls.

He had an unusually good thing going with this silent female, too, and there was one smell on her that intoxicated his mind. Her hunt had been unsuccessful - Marsh had witnessed as much - but that told him so much. She was alone - she was lesser - and she was hungry.

He shared every trait.

Together, they were one step towards a whole.

Watching her eyes, he rumbled in his throat, tilting his head slightly, inviting her, daring her. He would not hunt with just any young bitch. She must be deemed useful - worthy was not the right word, though close. He would not expend valuable energy unless he believed that two wolves could succeed in pretending to be a whole pack's worth. She was young, but there was no stupidity or weakness in her. That evidence wasn't enough. She would have to be tested.

Hesitating a moment, to try and put her off guard, he suddenly snapped at her muzzle before leaping back. His 'attack' was without might; it was merely to initiate the sparring, and even if he made contact it would cause no serious hurt. Head low, he looked ready to fight - but his teeth were not bared, and his tail was still gently, if infrequently, wagging. He'd cast his hook - would she bite?
OUR BODIES TALK TO EACH OTHER AND WE JUST KNOW

THIS IS WHAT WE WERE MADE TO BE
She understood. It was time to get a little more serious.

Speed was on her side, but only due to her youth. Speed was valuable, but rarely the crux of any battle, Marsh found. Still, it couldn't hurt to show that he could move - reading her, his every sense tuned into her actions, he saw her lunge and twisted himself out of her way, much like she had pulled from his own testing jaws. His body was a little creaky; he hadn't had to use it like this in several days, his muscles crying out in surprise. He hadn't fed in several days, and this was using his valuable energy reserves - but, we would hope, to a good cause. An unprepared wolf was a dead wolf, and he forced himself to act, to tap into his instincts, think about nothing but be aware of all.

Her playful snarl was exciting, and in response he offered his own - though it was more gutteral, raw, real. If he had no already established that this was not serious, it may have easily been taken wrongly. It was borne from his hunger and consequent eagerness to feed - and this bitch here was a means to an end. It drew out and became his own kind of playful noise, one he used as a soundtrack to the game. Aware of the minimal danger, Marsh was keen to get this... a little closer - and so he rushed her, intent to get their teeth in each others faces, their bodies right up in the same space. He was older, but not necessarily that much bigger, but it still had a slim chance of bowling her over, or simply pushing her back towards the flat wall of a large boulder. He snapped relentlessly at the air around her face, clearly more for show than anything, though would hardly stop himself from grazing her ears or cheek should it happen. Was she strong, was she brave, was she alive?
THIS IS OUR ENTIRE PURPOSE IN ONE LITTLE NUTSHELL