Phoenix Maplewood the old wolf remembers

Shreya prided herself on having an impeccable sense of smell. She was following her nostrils, and doing so meant uncovering a whole host of interesting surprises. All wolves lived by their senses, of course, but this was Shreya's favourite. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, sounds could be misheard, but smells? They said everything. There was a pack nearby, the smell of beechwood and maple, of cold winter soil and damp fur. And of something curiously familiar — a smell she associated both with success and with regret. On she went, seeming to ignore the two young warriors who followed in her wake, until she was almost at the borders and was met by — ah. A somebody. Shreya's instant impression of him was a good one, because he held himself well, and his inner strength was a beacon. But then, of course, she judged him by his looks and found him to be lacking. Pretty people tended to get further in life, she found. And so she supposed that this one had gone the extra mile to make up for that face. And those hips — you could impale a rabbit on them.

Good morning, she spoke first. My name is Shreya Carrow-Finch. These are my escorts, Boris and Firtha, she nodded over her shoulder, they're sexing each other but they think I don't know, she added. Boris opened his mouth to interject, but Shreya interrupted him. They're not looking for a pack, but I am. I suspect you have one around these parts...?