Snowforest Taiga and, oh, that heart; it loves as harshly as the sun burns

As if filled with déjà vu, Thuringwethil sees a familiar wolf coming in her direction and, when close enough, shouting at her from across the way. Her muscles tense and she tightens up her posture, looking to either side for a sign of Toxochelys but he remains in the distance. She does not necessarily need him by her side every second, capable of taking care of herself, especially one on one, but she finds herself conflict the closer the other gets. She realizes similarly that she doesn’t know the other’s name, certain they’d never made any personal exchange, but currently remains the least important thing on her mind.

The fur around her neck bristles automatically, only because the wolves belongs to the grotto and there’d been a breech not that long ago. Thuringwethil had done her best to avoid getting close to Larksong for a similar reason but now she’s come face to face again with one.

And it is unfortunate that she’d once liked the girl, even if she hadn’t been honest.

“Perhaps it is not wise we are found together,” she says, knowing that she might not understand the implication, but her own frustration remains while her fur increases the size of her look. The other has her own impressive size but the Larksong wolves haven’t proven to be the brightest of the bunch, and as much as she wishes to give the other the benefit of the doubt, their history has left an acrid taste in the back of her throat.