Shadewood wasted with the rhythm, angry at the melody

Bruxa loomed in the deep and well-warmed shade of the beachfront forest, watching ominously as a ragged young wolf traipsed through the oppressing trees she thought of as her own. The she-wolf did not have, or belong to, anyone. The woods were all she could call hers; the frightened birds and muggy salt-air were her only friends; and as sparse as her hold on all of it was, she wielded the claim proudly and clung like a tick by the blunting tips of her claws and teeth.

She approached him at a slink, narrowing her manic eyes as she veered into his line of sight and curled her lip at him. "Boy," she addressed him coldly, scouring his slim, dark frame with a gaze that both pried and scythed. "Do you belong here? "