Sleeping Dragon our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry

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The dragon child had found the hunt to be the most thrilling aspect of her pack life. It had been truly instinctual – carnal to the point that she had longed for the chase once it had finished and they had scored their mark against the prey animal. The lingering emotions that fluttered about inside of her had caused the young girl to distance herself from the others. It had been an intended moment of joyous celebration; they were to share the blood of that beast they had slain, and yet she watched with pale eyes as the wolves gathered around their meal and they hungered for the taste of its meats. Thyri was an observer, if nothing else. She had found herself keen on the thought of knowing her fellow pack mates merely from watching them, studying from a short distance. Though it had kept her from forming relations, the storm chaser did not see this as an issue. Instead, she found strength in her isolation.
 
While the others moved toward the kill, she hung further back and prepared herself for a moment in which she could approach the meat and steal away a chunk of it without forcing herself into a social interaction. Her eyes lingered on the slate coat of her sister and she curled her lip in disgust. The distaste that she felt for Freyja had not dampened in her time of growth. The others ate and Freyja waited with a tiresome patience; as if she were proving her worth by denying herself the food that she hungered for. Thyri could join her in her game of resolve. With a dutiful expression, the wolf of thunder placed herself nearby and cast a sharp glance toward the Feisripa with a brutal defiance.

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