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Finbar rejoined the others, and met the awaited Marco, who'd finally showed up; it turned out that he had been the third wolf, the golden one, that was there to arrest him the gloomy day before. Marco's demeanor had changed, suitably, and he brandished a very welcoming attitude toward the eager newcomer.
“I will be happy to teach you what I know whenever I can help,” the golden furred wolf dipped his head, his eyes gleaming valiantly, “and I hear that today is your hunting assessment. Is that right?”
Finbar nodded. “Yes. I take it you're a good hunter, huh?”
Marco puffed out his chest, smiling. “Only one of the best. I'm good at tracking, too.”
The wolf-dog chuckled. “Wicked.”
Silvera approached. “That is why Alpha Balto chose you for this task. I will watch your progress, Finbar. Both of you, go on now. Sorley and I shall keep a watch over you from a distance.”
Marco headed up the river with Finbar close behind in silence, trotting along the rocks and winding turns that the waterway made. The two traveled together toward the end of Isolation Pack territory, near his old cave shelter but still quite a way off; his former home had been just outside the borders.
Shuffling down rocky terrain, claws scraping and sharpening against the rough surface, and through bushes whose branches snapped and poked through their double coats as they pushed forward, their paws took them to a lushly vegetated glen. Finbar was excited to begin learning the ropes of catching prey, and then demonstrating his hunting skills before Marco; they were something he was much better at than brawling. He also felt that being taught one-on-one was a far more pleasant setting, because it felt less stressful and it was a lot easier to focus.
As Finbar's mind was de-cluttered to the sound of graceful birdsong and summer day breeze, Marco’s slender form padded down in the deep valley to the water's edge and the wolf-dog kept up. The soft grass crumpled under them, and gave them the gentle support their feet needed.
Finbar watched as Marco silently studied a school of lively minnows. They swam around in circles, as if waiting for something. “I love minnows,” the golden wolf commented, smiling peacefully. “I think they are so neat.”
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“I guess so,” the white wolf-dog agreed. It was good to learn about the interests of the pack members, because it made him feel as though he were growing closer to them. He desired to bond with them all in a way he’d never quite imagined before; Finbar had wanted a pack for a while, yes, but something was swelling up within him, something like an instinct if he were to guess.
Was it his wolf or dog side, or both? There was still so little that he truly knew about himself, about why he was the way he was.
“The way they stick close to each other, acting as one body composed of many,” Marco went on, never taking his eyes off his aquatic friends. “It can teach someone a lot about working within a group; stand alone, and you will fall. if you are many, you are strong.”
Finbar supposed that was true. “It seems like nature has a lot to teach us,” he commented, looking all around him at the beauty.
“God has strewn lessons all throughout creation,” Marco added in agreement, moving to stand over the water, causing the minnows to swiftly flee from the perceived danger of the wolf’s shadow. “These fish react instinctively as one body with many members. If it were any other way, they would die. That is why as a wolf pack, we must stick together in everything that we do. That includes hunting.”
“You believe in God?” Finbar asked.
“Of course. Why would I not?”
“I've just never met anyone who shares that faith.”
“All of us believe. What was your pack like, with the humans?”
“I've never had one,” Finbar explained. “I was always alone, kept away from other dogs. I only remember my mother, and father.”
“I am sorry to hear,” Marco hung his head a little, then walked on, Finbar following. “What do you remember of your parents, if you do not mind me asking?”
The half-breed felt a twinge of sorrow in the pit of his belly at the remembrance of his blood kin, but he ignored the feeling and chose to tell his story in spite of it. “I remember my mother's face the clearest of all; she was snow white with golden eyes, like me. I don't know her name, I wasn't with her long enough to find out. My father was a dusty gray male with a long, billowing coat; I was told that he was a ‘mid-content’ wolf-dog, a mix of mostly wolf with Shiloh shepherd, blue bay shepherd and Japanese Akita. I never learned his name, either.”
Marco rotated his ears. “Why were you not with your mother that long?” He asked.
Finbar’s eyes flashed momentarily as if a very bad memory had crossed his mind's vision. “That is the way of things, for dogs. We only spend eight weeks with our mothers before being taken away,” he explained quietly, as a breeze caught the leaves in the forest.
Marco was silent for a moment, then spoke. “That is unfortunate. It is even worse that your kind are not able to live within a pack under human care, because that early socialization is something everyone of us deserves. You should have had someone there to teach you how to be a wolf. That said, you seem to be holding up alright despite the handicap; do we have your instincts to thank for that?”
Finbar shrugged, honestly clueless. “I have no idea. I don't even know how to tell when I'm feeling instincts, either. Hey, not to sound rude at all, but when will we start hunting? Lady Silvera said I needed to catch something to pass the assessment.”
“Patience, brother,” Marco came to stand upon a rock overlooking the glen. “You will need a lot of it to lead a successful hunt, to feed the pack’s many hungry mouths.”