Phoenix Maplewood #Not All Beards

mahler had opted not to carry on in the eastward direction; he would come back to it. for now, the brutish thing had stayed cloistered in the redwood, hunting when he felt compelled, and slumbering otherwise. the enjoyment of solitude was warm within him; he suspected the small and fierce woman to which he was odd doppelgänger would not be alone. and while mahler wished to join her, he desired also not to be surrounded by the clamour of new faces.
today, the man's hunt was distracted by the scratching of quills, coupled with the longer, brisk movements of wolfkind. the shadows broke across his variegated figure; the loner watched the pale creature settle to groom, glancing between the stranger and the spiked mammal. in time, mahler stepped forward until he was visible, tongue sweeping his lips as he regarded his fellow curiously, but said nothing.