Phoenix Maplewood i could write novels with the words i could never say to you

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Well, that hadn’t gone exactly as the angakkuq had hoped.  The man never had been good at words, never had to be, and he all too often found himself relying upon observations and monikers in order to associate with his company. Much of the time he lucked out, his sincere yet taciturn nature somehow winning others over, but he never felt entirely comfortable. It was reason he considered himself a vagrant, a loner, an earthstalker, and preferred his solitude to the platitudes and pressures of others. Consequentially, he appeared a deep man upon the surface; but he was simple wolf, with simple wants and simple pleasures – and not being scorned by others was one of those pleasures.
 
But Komodo was born a man with tenacity, an overinflated ego and a will to never cede – especially not to a yearling shewolf, who shrugged him off as easily as she would the clouds of summertide mosquitos. The girl continued on her way, indignation palpable, and Komodo rose to supervene. His thickset maw held tightly shut, tongue stowed. As the shrouded shewolf moved away, he was five or so paces behind, eyes following the agouti flash of her pelt as it hit the sun. He wondered what she would do about his languid pursuit.

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