Perfect! Kite said.

Iopah glanced up unexpectedly at the declaration. The affection she held for her home was different than the way a newcomer would view it. What had Kite seen just now? She watched Kite for a moment, realizing the younger woman had already moved into the instructions. Her eyes flicked from the other's expression to the water, listening as the movement caused gentle ripples of water to form. It looked simple so far, but another glance at Kite revealed the intentness there.

Making no sound herself, Iopah slipped into the water as gently as possible. She pushed away the coldness and instead looked back to her teacher. Watching Kite, it seemed easy. Iopah moved forward and felt foolish by comparison. The smooth river stones shifted under paw and she felt horribly silly... sneaking forward with her prey nowhere in sight. She was used to following the scents and could tell the weight of a buck just by the impression he left in the mud. This was... how did somebody catch fish this way?

But she had to trust Kite - and technically she still did. So she waded further out, feeling more like she was taking a bath than finding a meal, and looked over at Kite yet again. "Where did you learn to fish? She whispered faintly, sound just audible over the crash of water. If fish had very good hearing she didn't want to scare them away. "My parents never knew." As she asked the question, movement caught her attention. Not too far away sunlight reflected off of something and then darted quickly away. Pale ears perked and she stiffened while watching the once-again clear water.

BROKEN TIMBER PINES

Iopah was near to her, now, and once that was noted Nightingale turned back to the water. After saying her piece she stared, getting used to first the hypnotic pattern of the water and once she could see past its constant streaming she specifically sought change in the flow, brought firstly by a strange ripple—unlike the typical pattern she had so grown used to in the first few minutes—and secondly by the shadow the fish produced, more visible than the silvery thing itself. Nightingale did not yet move. She wanted more to come to them; they would have better luck that way. Iopah it would certainly take more time than an instant, but then what else did the songbird have to do today?

An ear twitched as Iopah asked her where she had learned this. The waters were soothing, and as she watched the liquid pool over unto itself in a pattern like weaving (the water, itself, a whole different net) there came a fuzzy vision; she, a cub, in the Plains, next to a narrow tawny woman. The memory came unbidden, and so did the recollection of her failures. There were no names, no anything else, only a very strange and uncomfortable feeling that crept along her back as she stared—blankly, now—at the stream they lingered in. The revelation brought a pain to her. She recalled the Caldera telling her, you have been here all your life... but then, what did they define as a life?

The songbird felt more than a little frustrated and grit her teeth. The foundation the Caldera had built was strong, but there was a small sliver of a crack in it, now. My mother, she whispered. But as she tried to pull more details of the woman, there was a brick wall. Nightingale fought within herself, but as ever it was for naught. The recollection had simply come to her, a link sewn together in her mind. Nightingale could think of that memory, but the edges were blurry. No faces. No anything but the build of her, her instructive voice...

At the mention of Iopah's parents never teaching her, Nightingale hummed warmly, It's never too late to learn. I mean, I only became good at this this year... and I use good in the loosest way, Nightingale was ever humble; in her time alone, it was fishing that helped her survive. It meant she was better than good; and yet, still not so great as the average bear, who was the legitimate pro.

She turned back to the water. It's best to be quiet. When we talk, they feel it. Vibrations, I guess. Look at the ripples being made. We are a change in their environment. Too much and we are conspicuous and known. But if we can be still... we are like a fallen log they must swim around and under. They don't know any better. Our breathing is like the logs bobbing. We gotta be something they're used to. The songbird stared at the water again, now; she tried not to be distracted, but it was... difficult. All she could think of were her mothers paws, and how her smaller ones had looked beside them.

She was oblivious to the effect her words had wrought. An ear twitched once at Kite's reply, but her attention was following the drifting shadows. They had not completely fled (as she'd initially worried) and the consummate huntress within was fascinated. Iopah nodded -still staring down at the water- at the mention of Kite's mother. It wasn't out of the ordinary: Iopah's mother had taught her surviving daughter nearly all she knew about hunting.

Kite was right. Perhaps it was not too late for her to learn, nor for her daughters, but Iopah was also thinking of her parents. She grunted softly into the water. It was too late for them and she was trying not to wonder if this ability would have made any sort of difference. Perhaps that ominous river from the myth could have been their saving grace?

When Kite urged her to focus on the water and furthered the lesson, Iopah gladly obliged. She was still and quiet, as instructed. Time seemed to pass slowly, much slower than the current that surrounded them. Her gaze drifted; sometimes fixed in one spot (as if wishing could make a fish appear) other times moving with the flow of water. The school of fish appeared gradually, the woman's eyes widening with each that arrived. Her lip quivered, wanting to get them, but not knowing how. She dared to breath a whine, desperately wanting to catch Kite's attention.

BROKEN TIMBER PINES