He did not expect to be the first to respond to the call, nor did he really want to in the first place; deciding he had to pull his weight one way or another in exchange for his stone cottage and the open canvas of its back wall he used for spray painting, Micah shakingly wandered from the foliage coating his household and listened with twitching ears as the howl reverberated in the empty villa. Seeing no one else emerge from their dens in response to the call, the salt-and-pepper boy swallowed a lump in his throat, set his art supplies aside and quietly began the small journey to the pack's borders.
As he drew closer to what he knew was a stranger waiting, the boy's body increasingly grew in nervous tremors — and by the time Micah found the fellow and noticed the snake about his shoulders, the coyote had begun to hide behind his black curly bangs and bite at his lip.
"H-Hello," he stammered. "M-My name's Mi-Micah... um... Th-This is Cercat-t-t-tori D'arte... um... d-do you n-need anything?"
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