Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

Sif's ears twitch as Wardruna speaks; something about his proximity and smooth, accented voice causes her to bristle, but she can only press closer to his side, a murmur of agreement falling from her own lips. Woman, he's said, and some kind of denial, but Sif can see that the other wolf is obviously a woman - there's no telling what Wardruna had said.

The two continue to converse. Sif tries to keep up, but strange words keep tripping her up. Poet. Laquered. Guilded. Laurels. Apologies. All this is beyond the young shewolf's narrow vocabulary.

Sif looks to Wardruna, feeling secure in the knowledge that he is listening as well, and would likely know what to make of the woman's fast tongue and strange words. Still, a low whine escapes her, reminding the male to pay attention to Sif as well. She doesn't like to feel left out.