Overture Downs Survival is my middle name

As soon as her question rang in the air, the woman who they question was joined by two more wolves, a young male and an older woman. The witch huffed, feeling slightly uneasy. She still, for the life of her, could not trust these kinds of packs. They were stagnant, unmoving, unchanging in a way that felt unnatural to her. The herds moved, and so should they. She glared at them, her yellow eye quivering as it tried to focus on the three wolves. She stared at them, watching their auras come to life around. The two that just arrived were clouded for the moment with distrust and anger. The male's, at its core, was a royal blue, despite his current emotions. The bulky woman had one constant dark, muddled green, which worried her. The woman's was taken aback rather than aggressive, her aura pulsating dirty brown around her like a shell. She huffed, her silent diagnosis complete.

Her head turned, the dark eye locked on them as she scratched her left ear and cheek, as she muttered. Dis one, Camlo, vas leadink me 'ere, She nibbled in between her toes for a brief moment before she faced them squarely. 'e can't talk. But I am zinkink 'e vants to join dis foro — dis pack. She turned to squint at the pale wolf