Sleeping Dragon burning the letters that might have redeemed you

It takes a few seconds but the wolf manages a mangled sound, over and over, and Thuringwethil listens closely. The common language of wolves is not her native tongue and while she does not struggle most the time, it takes several tries on the other’s behalf for her to finally hear the word. “Hush?” she questions, ears twitching forward on her head. It seems to be a fitting name; perhaps instead of a later injury, a birth defect not big enough to warrant his death. They could get along just fine without speech.

“Thuringwethil,” she introduces, though sure Gyda informed the new recruit of his new heda. The tail above her spine offers a slight twitch in an official greeting and her nose extends far enough to offer her chin for him to greet.