Heron Lake Plateau count me in unnanounced.

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The events unfolded quite naturally to Grievous; the younger wolf had fitted himself with a collar of mild insecurity, but the older wolf— with the wry glint of an experienced maverick— found no immediate threat in him, as he’d meant. The basilisk perked up as he was addressed, rearing wordlessly to begin his descent in a slow, easy plod that brought him into the tail-end of their conversation.

His eyes, with their shadows like old gold, met the inviter’s champagne gaze first. His tail wagged evenly, meeting the man briefly on a level of respect as he came standing to form a misshapen triangle between the three of them. His slender jaw angled towards the young adult then, and he fixed the lean agouti with a critical gaze.

Besides the temperature of his eyes, the wolf seemed completely relaxed.

“Comrades,” he greeted his fellow vagrants in a sonorous drawl. “I am Grievous.” He noticed that they did not smell of one another, which made him ask offhandedly: “are thee well-suited to the Casanovian lifestyle?” He looked between them both, everything about him even, commanding, and almost impish. A bleak and daring wolf uncrowned.

“Or dost thine blood call for more than the singleton’s plight?”

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