Whitefish River vonn, gently tucking unconscious guards into bed:

Partway up the plateau, Vonnaruil had turned back. No, a voice murmured, one not within his possession. Not yet. Not time. Wait. When his dubious musings threatened to sway him further up the rise, it came, again: Courtfall must wait.

Courtfall?

He hadn’t heard that name before, not from any of the tongues he’d known of. But the Newcomer had listened to this voice — whoever it belonged to — and had offered to escort Reiko back the way they’d both come.

Once returned to the riverlands, the crow thought it’d be best to begin his stay leisurely. Marking, in leisure ...patrolling, in leisure ...fancying each member here, in leisure ...being indebted to his Count, in leisure ...and so it was how his day ultimately went as late afternoon began to bleed into the world.

The day seemed to be flowing nicely, but the bug of change still sat beneath Dulce's skin. It gnawed at her from the inside, longing to be free; it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her urges under wraps. To occupy her thoughts, she wandered to the border to begin marking. It was still relatively early which meant that if she moved fast enough, she'd likely be able to get most of the way around the territory.

Halfway through her rounds, Dulce noticed an annoyingly large break in the pack's scent trail. Que perezosos, she murmured to herself as she folded herself into a squat and began an awkward pee waddle.

“Lo sé,” the crow remarked, sighing dramatically to the heavens as he raised a leg for a tree (careful to be a gentleman and keep the goods hidden). “Usted pensaría que con un nuevo paquete, la marcación se haría con más entusiasmo.” Leg lowering, Vonn moved onto the next trunk to demonstrate. 

”Tómame, por ejemplo: me estoy orinando de emoción.” He sent a winning smile Dulce’s way, shook his leg out when finished, and the smile turned into an impish simper at her squat-crawl. “Remember to bend at the knees.”

I'm assuming he has a white coat because Arctic? Let me know if I'm wrong!

It was going to be too difficult to stifle Dulce's telling grin. Not only had the stranger approached her in her mother tongue, but he'd done it with charm; flirting was always easier to pick up on when she knew all that was being said. Somewhat embarassed, she stood straight once more and shot back an apologetic gaze. I'm not very good at this, she laughed, knowing that this was already made clear.

Tiene la piel de un gringo, un hijo de invierno. ¿Como aprendiste español? Not that Dulce was complaining or anything, she just found it interesting that someone likely born far from where she knew it was spoken could have mastered the tongue with such ease. Meanwhile, she struggled to speak both Spanish and English. Wanna walk with me?