Frostfire Ridge the blood that runs through my veins is ichor not iron

thanks for joining! :D

[table width=85%][tr][td]

Languages, Thyri dares to assume, is something she knows. She is fluent in three of them: common, Trigedasleng and the nordic tongue of her shield-maiden mother. Yet, as a golden male, older than her near year of age approaches making all sorts of ungodly noise her ears slick flat against the elegant crown of her head. The champagne and cremé dappled warrior’s light caramel gaze snaps upon him with a low growl bubbling in her throat. If she’d had envisions of hunting they were gone now for she believes all the noise he makes would have spooked them. It seems, to her, like enough noise to wake the dead from their graves. What kind of wolf moved announcing his presence with singing like that? More importantly, what kind of wolf did it and was still breathing? The noise he makes has the very real potential of spooking off nearby prey it also harbors the possibility of alerting other predators to their presence and further their position. She bites her tongue — though only barely — against the desire to chide him for the noise he makes.

For a moment Thyri's eyes widen as he speaks to her, greeting her in a manner that is far too casual for her comfort, using words that she cannot make sense of. Toots? What is a bay and how does it sway? Her confusion evaporates quickly as her gaze narrows keenly. “What did you call me?” She demands feeling that it is within her rights to ask for an explanation so she knows if she has just been insulted or not. Her tail lashes against her hocks as she stares him down, unrelenting.

[/td][/tr][/table]