Felltree Marsh from the place the world forgot

She’s given mixed signals from both of the wolves, just as she had the time they met, and her skin scrawls with irritation. One ear flicks on her head and she regrets following the scent as far as she had. If she’d just taken the hint that they were close, she could have determined the line where her wolves should not cross. Her tongue slips out of her muzzle as she gives them a moment to figure out how they’d like to handle it, but either way she knows the answer.

However, the male speaks up—she realizes their names are still unknown—and her fur bristles around her neck to broaden her shoulders. It takes a considerable amount of effort not to straighten up her posture.

“Do not worry about how I handle my wolves,” she tells him, eyes narrowing, before glancing back to the female. “They will not come this far,” she assures with a hardened voice. Until whatever tension between them clears up, she’ll advise them from coming this far, but wolves disobeying her command are not her wolves. Thuringwethil jerks her nose upward before she takes a step back from the wet soil beneath her feet, turning to take her leave.