Swiftcurrent Creek it was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles
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Ooc — Mary
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#8
The question struck him and, at first, Bronte didn’t know just how to describe the joy that was Coelho. A small smile curled his dark muzzle upward and he breathed a sigh that held tones of his reminiscent nature regarding the young girl. “She is… like a warm spring day after all the snow has gone and the days have grown longer,” he described as best as he could. Of course, the little coywolf had her faults and her strange quirks, but Bronte had never found a more pleasant companion in all of his short years of life.