Permafrost Hollows hunger is the beginning of every folk tale

The scent he tried to get away from quickly envelopes him. His nose wrinkles, and he wonders about the strange gust of wind—noting the female in the area before she speaks—and he began a few more steps away, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d been approached for it, and Thuringwethil’s conditions had been met from his understanding, but uneasiness settled in his stomach. He doubted he would be asked to sire children in his former home, but Drageda was unlike any other branch. A new empire, a new home, he had to remind himself.

When she speaks, his steps halt and he turns around to see her. His feet remain planted, despite the scent luring him in, but he tries to think of something else if only to keep himself from mounting her right then and there. His ears shift back against his skull and he finds somewhere else to focus on as he regains his thoughts. 

He tries to smile, forcing something awkward onto his features when he wills himself to finally move. The closer he gets, the more her scent fills his brain and it becomes easier to let his body take over, to fight for his purpose here—it was rooted deep in his instinct and while warriors of Seageda had trained themselves in control, somethings were hard to rewire when they were built so deep within. 

Gavriel’s tail wags a few times and he dips his nose, putting it beneath her chin and licking the soft fur there before he moves and trails her scent along her body. He keeps all four feet on the ground, letting her take the lead as she saw fit.