Things were going well with Baird. The young male seemed to take well to the task of scouting and border patrol, and showed great promise for growth. Sleekwing was well aware of the fact that he was no longer young, and though he had proven that he could still hold his own in a fight, it was high time that he fully trained a replacement. The future belonged to the youth of the pack. That he would serve Spirane until he was no longer capable of doing so was a given, but the time had come for him to relinquish the title of master and pass it on to the next generation. The final test – one of wills, smarts, and brawn – was yet to come, but Sleekwing was confident that his apprentice would continue to prove himself. For now, however, he was still Castellan, and duty called.

He jogged along the borders of Spirane on his daily trek across the territory, constantly aware of his surroundings and the slightest changes in topography or scent trails. It was only at the sound of a howl, one that called upon him directly, that he veered from his path and took up a loping stride to cut across the distance. After his encounter over the summer with the violent shewolf who had attacked him unprovoked, he was more cautious – and suspicious – of strangers upon the borders of Spirane than ever before.

When he reached her, she had already crossed into the pack lands, but had taken pause to wait for his arrival. His tail swung out behind him, lifted away from his hindquarters as his ears pitched forward intently. Coming to a stop some three wolf-lengths away from her, he studied the white shewolf for a moment. She seemed familiar. It took him a moment to place her face as the one who had orchestrated the play event the previous winter in conjunction with Nymeria. His features softened then as he stepped closer, dipping his head in greeting. “Liquid Amber, I presume? I am Sleekwing.”