as ever, smooth silence guided his actions as he ventured away from the Pack of White Supremacy, carefully avoiding pack borders as he followed along the river yawrah. it was peaceful, if not oppressing. the Loony Luna was pleasant along the ridges of his back as he casually trotted forward, untransformed. he considered his options. his life was quite the dull one… he had yet to make any strong bonds or do anything spectacular. samson didn’t even have a den yet—he was planning to pick one out eventually, set up a studio in it and such, maybe even work with some sculpture with the clay he found by the riverbanks. but for now he had taken to sleeping wherever he fell, usually in the forest.
he smelled something up ahead. a dog, it seemed. the were hadn’t been a part of ‘souls long enough to know the tales of the Land of Wuffluvers, so rather than ignore it, he curiously followed it. something about the scent seemed familiar, too. the culprit he discovered was a female dog, lying down on her back. he squinted; she looked familiar, smelled familiar, but he couldn’t know who she was. the hybrid flicked through his memories, trying to rethink of every dog he had ever met. he hadn’t met many, but considering his mother was over-half-yote, he had met a few.
her name, was a something. he frowned. ’er, hello,’ samson hesitantly spoke, clearing his throat. then he laid down next to her, on his belly like a sphinx, wondering if she would be able to piece together his memory puzzle. that is, if they could communicate.
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