Blackfeather Woods watercolor melon

A young, but certainly not small, wolf approached, almost instantly berating him for being too close. Ovaltine rose, stepped several strides backward, and spoke as he did so. "My apologies, miss." It took him a moment to realize that her left eye was torn to pieces, clearly lacking sight. That right there was a pity. So young, and already hindered by what he assumed was a senseless injury. Make no mistake, she would likely adapt, but it was still a shame. Things like that could be so easily avoided if taken care of properly. Perhaps this pack lacked a proper medicine man (or woman, for that matter).

Once he felt he had made it clear that he was not intending to get uncomfortably close, Ovaltine spoke again. "My name is Ovaltine Driftwood. Does this forest have a name?" He spoke to her as he would an adult. Clearly, she had gone through enough, and her stance was clear enough, that she understood how to act like one. Sure, she still had some filling out to do, but he was not about to talk to her as if she was a child.