Dawnlark Plains Don't Accept the Truth

For too long, Reek had forgotten how to cut loose and laugh. He had been fettered by a healer's struggle of fighing the futility of mortality as he watched friends and brethren fall away into the void of death, outside of his control. It aged him in more ways than one; the grey peppering that once marked his muzzle had spread to his underbelly, blanched and faded from stress. His smiles became infrequent. But, as he bowed to play with the coyote, he could almost feel himself reconnecting with the man he used to be— happy and carefree.

His signal to play was quickly reciprocated. The coyote moved in some sort of a skittering-sway, and Reek was immediately reminded of the way Sart would act when she was excited. A broad smile stretched across his face and he waggled his butt, side to side in the air. All the while, an excited laugh passed his lips as he anticipated her to make the first move.  

Meager muscles primed for movement, Reek launched backwards as the coyote lunged in his direction, thus lifting his forepaws into the air and himself on to his back legs. She yipped and yapped, and Reek responded with a playful growl of his own as soon as his front feet met the ground once more. He dropped his body low and let his tail wave high, before leaping forward toward the coyote.  If granted clearance in his aim, Reek would draw both the coyote's small frame and himself into a rolling tumble.