Sleeping Dragon a language that makes boats out of our bones

Gavriel had heard, in passing, that Sangilak and her companion had come from nearby Seageda—though there had been a great distance between them, it was not enough that they were not unknown. The wolf, either of them, he does not know, but he knew of the Tartok wolves several days travel away. He knew their struggle had some impact of his former home and helped ruin the threat, in the long run, but most of it is over his head and he doesn’t question. Neither of them seemed to be going back, and he’s quite content—as far as he can tell—in their new empire.

His ears cup forward, though, at a new sound that distracts him from his thoughts, and he sees a flame of red. And then a second, and his fur bristles and he hops forward a few times with a low growl. Two foxes linger in the distance, unaware of their presence, and he offers a soft chuff—barely a rush of air from his lips—to see if his new companion sees the same thing. Gavriel shifts, putting a little distance between them so they could circle around the two creatures.