Barrow Fields do you believe there is loyalty in a man?

Blistering wind breathed life into the forest, its nippy exhale gusting the first leaves of the season awhirl. The tree boles braced against its strength, their leaf-budding branches playing whisper games amongst eachother—talkative, and outstretched towards the welkin as a young children reaches for a parent. 

The murmurings fell upon the ears of the little black wolf as she picked her path in some indiscriminate direction. She’d lost her other half a number of miles ago. Their reunion had been fatefully arranged with Lusca in receptive form––a form rare as any, and they often walked astride, pressed against one another. Nights prior the pair had consummated their bond, coupling frequently in the days after at nature's insistence, but her desire to be near him constantly began to fade as an instinct and some independence was like a gasp for oxygen satisfied after the flash flood of pheromones dragged her under its tow.

On present morning, much to her revulsion and his glee, the universe presented Tachyon with another Tachish Delight. A finding to which Lu snootily turned her nose up higher than ever before––she wasn't hungry much to begin with, but what peckishenss was present there had retreated to the back of her mind with queasiness’ resurgence. Something about moshpig's malodor didn’t sit right with her. However, to precisely no one's surprise, Tachyon was more than happy to polish off her share––but not before rolling in its carcass, of course. She found that his preference for cologne lacked a certain appeal.

Eventually emerging from the woodline into a meadow suffused with the opalescent colors of mauve and gold, Lusca tried to gather her bearings, snuffing at hedgerow and probing the rimy groundcover with a reserved sort of interest.