Bearclaw Valley chamomile

Kristjan wondered how right his brother was. With his very limited scope of who his father was, Gunnar had seemed too old to be anything but nice. Certainly wolves with nasty attitudes didn’t live as long as he had. And Tauris… well, he only thought of her as kind, and though he knew she could be firm with them, he’d never thought of her as a warrior. Maybe Sven had seen her fight and had failed to relay the story. Rude! He’d ask about it later.

As their twin call died out over the fishbowl valley, a dark shape skittered forward from a tangle of bushes that shuddered in its quick wake. Kristjan hardly had time to register that it was a wolf before she was upon them, welcoming and wide-eyed with open curiosity. Oh! Hallo, he chuckled nervously, glancing at Sven. She was younger than them, but only just. A darkling girl with a russet nape and a lightbulb stare.

I am Kristjan, and this is my brother, Sven. It is good to meet you, miss…? He trailed off suggestively.