Marcus has been a quiet presence, at first stand offish in that pensive way of someone who has entered this world without close companions of his own to gravitate towards, and is unsure as yet as to when they will leave. Then, in the days that followed, some synchronicity. Battle-scarred and given to brusque dialogue, it may be surprising to find him participating in tasks like washing dishes or gardening or requesting to be brought along on supply runs into town, where he mostly carries heavy things in obedient semi-silence. Uncertainly navigating his way around gas station coffee.

And then another handful of days pass in which no one sees him at all.

But not difficult to locate. The presence of a large timber wolf exploring this territory is not subtle, and even if he does not range too close to the Den itself, his presence is probably more obtrusive than the man. Carcasses left in the brush, scent marks, and then, eventually, a minor scuffle between a furred scout that had gotten curious about this outsider carving his own small patch of territory within the larger one.

Nothing deadly, this clash, but perhaps notable, reported back that a somewhat misapplied moment of compulsion (an impolite request to be left alone) following some flashing fangs and warning bites signalled that this could be a problem.

There is a river that runs nearby, a wide and shallow stream of water that burbles over rocks and is the home to river fish and those that might dine on them. A wolf emerges from the brush, mud spattered, a confident trot in his pace. He keeps his head low as he dips his nose at the very surface of the water, drinking deeply.

He only pauses this action when a noise of something else nearby gains his attention, going still save for the swivel of one ear.