Porcupine Ridge Melange, The Spice

It appeared Tuwawi's placidity payed off when The Wolf chose to approach the red stranger. She watched his paws step closer with careful motions, perhaps not entirely convinced of her presence. Yet, his proximity offered the promise of a proper greeting. The Sveijarn barely moved as he inspected the collar — her own gaze studying the pattern of his tawny fur patiently — but the sensation of his nose so near her head elicits a shiver that runs down her back and withers. It is a nuanced gesture — a pleasant feeling; for this closeness... this type of interaction... was one Tuwawi did not realized she had longed for so deeply. 

He passes over her ruff with the same care, and at this moment the woman take a half-step nearer to him, muzzle reaching out to gingerly whiff at his shoulder. Her posture remains slack and inviting, though her tail wags a bit more vigorously than before. Perhaps a younger wolf would have phased into a play-bow, but the matron is poised with all the graces of an older woman. She does not touch him, for she feels it is not her right to initiate first contact. However, her posture appears open, friendly, and wanting to continue their silent dialog.