Big Salmon Lake la vie en rose

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Kitsch exhaled deeply as West confirmed their solitude, letting her knitted muscles loosen and broken fram lay heavily atop the mire. The wastrel nurtured some doubts that her assailant had left her [even if he was gone in the flesh, but would he ever truly leave her in mind or spirit?] but Kitsch found response with the older shewolf standing above her.  This might have been the first time she softened since the attack… and it felt good. it felt nice. it was must easier to shoulder the weight when a compassionate soul there to bear it with her. 

West was not a wolf that Kitsch knew well, but at that moment, Kitsch would have followed the woman into the fires of hell. The pearl was hungry for government and security — and West’s voice was like a sweet song, offering her such amenities a thousandfold. So when West cajoled her into rising once more, Kitsch somehow managed the strength to do so.  Feebly, she shuffled towards the warmth of the sun and as she moved, the naiad felt a flush creep up her visage in embarrassment. The nature of the attack was clearly written upon her body and, having risen to her full height, her story was put on exhibition; from the wounds on her withers to the swelling of her rib to certain injuries that would require a more delicate touch. Kitsch clamped her tail over her rump and  pressed it firmly between her legs, wishing to conceal the information that she did not wish West to know; how worthless and weak she was.  

It did not take Kitsch long to move, but she did so in such a pathetic manner that one might wonder how she had made it so far from the meadow. “Okay,” she uttered needlessly and laid against the warm grasses — this time, she managed to keep control of her limbs and was able to lower herself in a more dignified fashion.  “Okay,” Kitsch said again, reassuring herself. Then, her keppel gaze swept up to the form of West beside her and she whispered sincerely “Thank you…”

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