Stavanger Bay Spirit cold

Yes! ;-; A golden heart in a bad situation.

Szymon’s eyes bored into the young wolf who cowered before him. He knew she could see him, hear him — but she did not heed his command. Only the fact that her eyes were wide and fixed and frightened soothed the flicker of annoyance that stiffened his spine and lifted his hackles — he knew what it was to be frightened. “I w-w-will n-not t-t-touch again you if you d-do not w-wish it, small fish,” he muttered, “b-but if you r-r-run th-this time, I will b-be f-forced to s-s-stop you.” She had run from the blessing — not even the great Sea Turtle could grant her fortitude. The black-banded Cairn was not an eloquent creature, and he did not know how to speak to the child; his tail twitched like a live wire as he twisted his clumsy tongue within the confines of his mouth. “H-Has no one t-t-told you why th-the ceremony was p-p-performed?” He did not expect the little wolf to trust him, but there was a weak, soft part of him that wanted her unhappiness dispelled. He simply did not know how to go about achieving that — or whether it was even possible.