Phoenix Maplewood What if the witches wrote the book

He gave her a nod of gratitude as her pace slowed to match his mismatched lope, unsure if she would acknowledge it but it came to him as naturally as many other things would. Courteous, his mother would've called it. As wolves of the north, whatever few beasts one would stumble upon would be treated as they would one of their own. For survival on the peninsular was limited, and any that made it through deserved their fair share of honour. "Mhm," he mused, a smile plucking at the corners of his black-outlined lips. "May I ask how far away these mountains are? How many-a-dayswalk from these woodlands?" Of course, Thuringwethil was still at the forefront of his mind, yet adopting the little woman's optimistic attitude proved to be of some relief. He would tackle things as they came.