Sleeping Dragon witch hunter

Thuringwethil watches the way the wolf shifts, keeping his eyes averted in an upward fashion, rather down, and it causes one ear to flick curiously. Her face doesn’t hold the expression—it doesn’t need to—and he presents his question. Perhaps to give some semblance of talking to her but she knows it doesn’t quite settle well in her stomach. It isn’t enough for her to acknowledge as more, or to discard the loner now, so she sets it on the back burner.

“For the right wolf,” she tells him with a smooth tongue. He is smaller, maybe at least half her size, but so is Lorne, and Hush. So is Gyda. Size matters in some aspects, but it isn’t a tell-all on how one presents as a fighter. Thuringwethil had been bested many sizes, though it has lessened since she’d become Heda, whether because of her power or other’s easier submission, she never is sure. “Is that you?”