She hadn't any idea what he thought of her, and try though she might to discern it, she couldn't. The she-wolf looked away for a moment, and then looked back. The only thing she could sense off of him was his fear. Was it of her? Her in particular? She had forgotten, completely, now, the expression she had made when first disturbed; it was one of those things one thinks nothing of, and when asked, what was that look? the other would confusedly ask, what look? She wasn't all too sure what she was doing; it was just who she was. How she always reacted. Some took well to it, others thought she was a strange, strange wolf. Many might consider her off, but the songbird was passionate. Not about being liked but simply about others happiness... even at the expense of her own. For instance, now. It couldn't be helped that her vibrant energy seemed to fade for a moment as she worried, Am I making him unhappy...? Am I scaring him? What do I do?... but it came back when he accepted her offer to fish.

Nightingale smiled, and trotted toward the bank but did not cross it. Instead she looked into the rippling water and tilted her head at it, searching for the way light could play on fish-scales. Her tail waved beneath her hocks, more comfortable for his willingness. It might have been stammered, but he could've told her to go when she asked if that was what he had wanted, right? She was at ease and watching the water, placing her forepaws over some slick rocks and planting herself there. For the moment she was quiet, in hunter-mode, watching the creek eagerly.

He inched closer as she stared at the water, but as the cold crept at her paws the songbird realized what he had. He was the first to say her thoughts, and she looked up to him, nodding. His voice had been quiet, but had managed to rise just over the babbling of the waters they stood upon. And when he began to move, the songbird did not so much as look back. Duck's were waterfowl; who knew fish better than them? Of course, he was not a Duck in the literal sense. But the Caldera had told her each wolf was given their name for a reason. In asking why she was named Nightingale—she could not remember, after all—they quirked their brows and mentioned her singing of dreams, and that she'd always sung of them. Her voice was not so sweet as the songbirds but the stories she weaved were, that she dreamed of a man whose face she could not remember, whose voice she had heard before but could not think of how or when and where if the only place she had been was here—The Caldera—and they laughed and said, of course you have heard it before, you've dreamed of this mystery dream wolf so much!

She tried not to lose herself to this train of thought, to pay attention. She was relieved to see that Duck had not stopped and she had not gone so far in the dregs of her mind that she had walked well beyond him. No, they were still moving along, and her eyes turned back to the creek. The songbird had long since decided to give him the reins here. Y'see anythin'? The songbird whispered, ankle-deep in the cool water. Her ears perked and rotated in attentive interest, excited for this jaunt, this pleasant distraction, and the company.

He remained silent the whole time. Nightingale wondered if she had ever been good with silence. When hunting, yes, but when walking, when with someone? She felt anxious and nervous all over again, on edge. The songbird was insecure, only because she hadn't any idea about anything of herself and the silence let all of the doubts in the world creep in. Nightingale chased them away from her, heart hammering in her chest. The Caldera again came to mind... but it was then that, in her peripherals, he drew to a stop. She was not so deep in her thoughts again to miss this and the songbird blinked firstly at him, and then the spot he had found.



The first sign of his good find was the fact that one fish went flying gracelessly over that lip to join the next part of the stream and continue on its way. The songbird sniffed; she imagined bears and their hunting tactics. The waters they stood over, however, were roaring and not at all a bother to their tank-like structure. The find he had made was more for wolves of their build... and while the waters didn't overflow with fish pooling over the ledge [it wasn't the season, here], some went with the flow. None against it; there was no reason to. The songbird moved toward the ledge much like a bear, but there was no lumbering on her part. Her movements were plucky and quick; she wished to create as minor a disturbance as possible. She thought again of her time with Iopah, and became a part of the water. She stood parallel to the falls, alongside it instead of looking over it. That way, no matter what the angle, she could spot the scales.



She looked upward to invite him to join her with a glance; her tail waved. The songbird enjoyed herself best when fishing and hunting at the moment, as well as simply running—the songbirds build screamed that she was made for such a thing, as opposed to fighting—and it was no different now, as her eyes flit across the water.

His smile earned one from her—a fleeting look his way caught it—but the minute movements of the creatures of the place they stood stole her attention and a look of concentration prevailed. He hopped to her now, and they mirrored one another. Her focus was entirely on the waters, now; his split between her and what her eyes rest upon both. The songbird let the underwater critters get used to the both of them before thinking of attacking. Even when a fin slapped against her ankle the woman was still. One ear cupped toward the water while the other leaned toward Duck as her muscles coiled.


The thing was in the air at the expected moment, moving from one part of the waters to the next. It seemed to be suspended in the air as Nightingale made her move, but she lurched after it a second too late. An unsatisfying splash could be heard as the fish safely found its way, and she snorted. She grinned despite her failure, Slippery!!! Nightingale half laughed, half huffed; her glittering eyes fell to him and her tail waved.



The songbird hated to fail, but it wouldn't stop her from succeeding... even if it meant she would be here all night. And at the very least, she took her failure gracefully. Her attention fell back to the water again and her focus seemed to return to her, settling upon her features. The non-telluric aquatic inhabitants were indeed slippery... but not impossible to catch... perhaps her companions first go would be more successful than her own.

The songbird let the lull of her trance be broken by the movement of her companion. She watched without knowing she was really watching, more out of the side of her eye than anything else. But as he fell truly into it, Nightingale turned to watch without being entirely aware of it. When his teeth missed their mark, too, her tail waved encouragingly behind her in a slow arc. His stillness gave her pause for a moment, but as he looked to her and grinned, she matched his expression, her tail again waving. Droplets sprayed behind her idly, and as another fish bumped into her foreleg, she looked down to see it. It swam toward Duck now, and the songbird turned to look back to the water. Focus, she told herself.



She let two others pass before she made her next move. It did not go over the edge; she simply plunged for it. She gripped it and withdrew sharply, but the location she had grabbed made her face quite easy to slap at with its fin. Bllarrhgh! Came Nigel Thornberry she struggled; its harassment prompted her to release and it swam away only a little worse for wear. She snorted water from her nostrils and looked at him; she couldn't help but laugh at this rounds failure. Nightingale could only imagine how she had looked, getting smacked around by a fish; the image itself alleviated any frustration she could have felt at her failure.


Third times a charm. That was the rule of thumb, wasn't it? The agouti wolf was nothing if not persistent, and so she turned in a small semi-circle. She could see the coming fish better this time, and the soaked she-wolf waited for the proper one to approach; typically when a wolf fished, even if they were good, they were met more often with failure than success. Such had been her fortune (or lack thereof) so far. The songbird let her failures roll off her shoulders, knowing that she would come to get a fish at the end of this, and one was more than enough. One flung itself upward to go over the ledge and the songbird parted her jaws and reached—


Her efforts, this time, were rewarded not with the clack of empty jaws. As they closed shut, they securely held within them a fish. Its size was unremarkable, but she proudly held it still! Her tail waved and her eyes were alight, her entire being expressing: I got one!