Porcupine Ridge things my heart used to know

With measured pants, Diane got her heart to decelerate, which in turn caused the rest of her body to soften muscle by sinewy muscle. She eased out of her bowed crouch, trying to keep the absolute horror out of her expression, and equally to study their expressions which certainly reflected disgust. Jhala spoke, but the unnamed male did not, and she belatedly realized that this dominant colt must be the Tagg's second. The range of embarrassment continued to grow.

"Yes, I mean, I think.. well, I didn't, I just didn't expect it. I've never—" How does one explain a sudden face shyness? How does she say that the last touch her face had received had been done to shove a paw down her throat and make her vomit a bellyful of seawater? The Beta male stood by in acute stoicism, and Diane could feel the judgement set in his stance, passed on her in a moment of drowning recollection. She had hoped to keep this affliction at bay, and it seemed she had been outed first-step by two of the most powerful wolves here.

But even though she felt too small and too visible, Diane did not stop wagging her tail in small, quick sweeps against her hocks. Shaking off the anxiety. "I've never been afflicted like this before," she sought redemption, understanding; though she was unwilling to say that the reason was because everyone she had ever known was presumed dead, and she was running from something that was purely in her head—that popped up at will. Most inappropriately.

"I just.. I just need to get used to it," she said, feeling hyper aware of herself, but stronger than that was a desire to subdue the self-consciousness. She took a tentative step towards Jhala, dipping her head and stepping once more, swallowing as she asked to be touched. "Please," she quietly beckoned the starkly colored female, afraid that she would be treated like the plague. And a cruel part of her felt like she deserved it for all the running. "I don't want to be afraid here. I won't—I can't be afraid here."

To the silent male (who she expected to leave soon instead), she pulled back her ears and realigned the positioned vibe of her body so that everything about her read as an apologetic invitation with no obvious expectation for his acceptance.

When Tagg had described this one, she had imagined her mute, dim cousin Bastille—a distracted boy, sweet but unconscious of his wrongdoings. But he was not like that. No, this was an uncivilized swain, but highly competent by comparison. He was dominant in his own right, and a fine match for the kind and powerful Jhala (because Diane assumed again that their respective ranks implied a mateship).