Sleeping Dragon a language that makes boats out of our bones

Gavriel spots the large creature ahead of him and lifts his nose to try and catch her scent, but the wind works against him and it’s undetected. He narrows his brown eyes and picks up his speed, weaving through whatever brush is in his way until he’s close enough to determine she’s not a threat. Relief washes over him; he’d been here long enough and regained most of his strength that he’d withstand in a fight well enough to ward off a trespasser. He didn’t need to, however, when Thuringwethil’s familiar scent reminds him she’s a pack mate.

A chuff escapes his lips while his gait slows but he lowers his head a little, tail wagging a few times behind him, to give the higher ranked wolf her earned respect.