Thoughts

His stance of dominant display seemed to go unchallenged – the she-wolf offered a bow, and whether this was of mere politeness or of subordination, he was uncertain. Closing the distance between them slightly, his muzzle canted slightly as she spoke, his gaze drifting from her and back once more to the meadow.

“Scimitar,” he introduced in turn, shifting his attention from her pretty features and noting the acrid scent of blood and gazing to the source. “You’re hurt,” he offered then, a light frown marring his features, though he made no move to inspect further. He was no healer, and he could see she had placed something upon the cut on her own accord.