Sun Mote Copse It's going down, fade to Blackstreet

Sullivan's eyes, rimmed by the whites, turned slowly to Ragna. If he was a more intimidating wolf, he might've narrowed his eyes at her as if to say OMG STFU, but he was about as intimidating as a teddy bear, and his stare was more panicked than anything. Easily written off by the potential promise of violence, he would reason, if anyone cared to ask.

Arunik'ra spoke then and he swung his head back toward her, dragging a leaf or two off the ground and onto his cheek as he did so. Very well, she said, and his ears pricked up in surprise. He'd expected something else entirely, and had to fight hard not to LOL.

"Oh, thank you!" he exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet, the picture of a teenager and not of a prophesied seer. "The spirits thank you! I'm Sully!" It wouldn't hurt to mention the spirits at every possible interval. Sullivan knew he was full of shit, but this dumb (yet hot) bimbo was lapping it up like a kitty lapped milk, and she'd be even more impressed with him if the spirits communed with him on the regular, or so he thought. Nailed it.