biohazard

“Very well,” rumbled the mistress of the mountain, reaching out to complete the ritual by sniffing the corners of his lips and then gently closing her teeth on the bridge of his snout. She couldn't remember his name, but to her it was an unnecessary detail anyway. Her wolves could have called themselves One, Two, Three, and Four for all it mattered to Jinx. She knew them by sight and, more importantly, by scent. She would commit Tiarnán's name to memory when he showed his true commitment to Silvertip.

“Welcome home, warlock,” she said, moving aside and beckoning for him to rise. She would make sure to rub her body along the length of his to cover his wild scent in that of herself, but only if he permitted. In his first moments as a Silvertip wolf, he need not concern himself with the hierarchical rights of the pack wolves. That would begin on the morrow.