Herbalists' Cache young punks, get off my lawn

The boy canted his head at a more exaggerated angle, his pale, powder blue eyes observant and unafraid.  "Keep that up, and you'll get stuck that way," the tawny female muttered, snorting derisively at his innocuous observation.  He wasn't wrong; she was breathing harder than she ought to have been, especially given how much time had passed since her wild chase.  That didn't mean she was happy about his pointing it out, though.

Sax fully expected the scruffy youngster to go on his perplexingly merry way after his stellar diagnosis, but with a friendly wave of his tail he drew nearer and introduced himself as "Tambourine" — odd name, the old she-wolf thought, but she'd certainly heard worse.  "Saxifrage," she said, turning stiffly to lick at her aching left hip.  Through a mouthful of her own fur, "Where's your pack, boy?" she asked, settling on that particular question because it was friendlier than, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"