Porcupine Ridge Melange, The Spice

The red matron slowed her pace to sniff at a recently marked stump. Porcupine Ridge's wolves were consistent in their patrols, she could gather, which alluded to active leadership and a deep sense of self. Tuwawi appreciated this mantra, for she had been equally protective of Duskfire during her reign in the Taiga. Only a few moments of nostalgia were allowed to pass before the sounds of an approaching wolf caused the Sveijarn to return to the present. Her ears perked as silver gaze fell upon a tawny agouti male at the borders — rigid in posture and assertive in stature — his eyes fixed upon the device strapped around her neck. 

He was good-looking and healthy; a fit animal who appeared well-fed and strong. Though his voice rumbled with skepticism, it did not deter Tuwawi who was, by now, accustomed to such reactions. The collar had become apart of every-day life. A burden the likes of a crown of thorns... a daily reminder of past transgressions. Yet the important part was to convince this wolf that the alien equipment posed no threat.

Tuwawi's tongue rolled over her chops as her posture slackened comfortably, approaching the male with bright eyes and the confidence of an experienced individual. Her tail was neutrally set and wagged to covey a level of amicability, ruddy ears poised at 9 and 3 o'clock deferentially. She smiled (as self-assured wolves do) — scarred muzzle open with her lips relaxed in an easy-going grin. She chuffed a greeting and approached slowly with the intent to sniff at him... however, she was careful to be vigilant should he reject her welcome.