Barrow Fields these are the last blues we're ever gonna have.

She barks a few more seconds, distracting the birds but not enough to move them away from the kill. After a moment, she glances over her back to see what the white wolf is doing and she smirks, stiffly wagging her tail despite the irritation between them. When she decides she’s effectively fucked up the chase for him—for she does not think the birds will turn their backs on him now—she begins to trot off as smoothly as she can with an awkward gait and a searing pain shooting the entire length of her back.