Lake Rodney shapeshift conductor for your spark

There is something imperious about the silver-gilded male who rises gracefully to his paws and untangles himself easily from the behemoth’s roots. Tall, sharp ears press intently forward upon the raven’s crown in unfeigned interest as he sidesteps carefully, maintaining the same amount of distance he’d originally placed between himself and the druid. Aversion is normally his default when it comes to meeting new wolves, but he finds himself capriciously curious about the articulate young wolf who quips lightly and then introduces himself. Cypress doesn’t crack a smile, but neither does he curl a lip at the witty rejoinder. He simply accepts it in stride and moves past it, his sulphureous eyes locked on the stranger’s bright apple green ones.

“Cypress,” he responds quietly, his own tail stirring faintly. “If you weren’t in trouble, what were you doing out here alone?” His low baritenor is far from accusatory; he just doesn’t see the island and its towering guardian the same way Mato does. It’s been a good long while since Cypress has seen beauty in — well, anything. Even Alya doesn’t appeal to him for her beauty, although it is an undeniable factor in his unacknowledged attraction to her. The last beautiful thing he could remember seeing was his mother — and maybe if he tried, he could imagine what Eshe might say about such a picturesque scene, but he didn’t.