Deepwood Weald Check the cupboard for your daddy's gun

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The little blackbird came closer, every last bit of her composed of lithe, keen lines and noble features— for a girl her age. Grievous was beginning to feel a little disappointed with the ages of these females he came across. He was a wolf inclined to believe he had no need of a woman he couldn’t breed with, but very recently he’d taken on a long-game challenge of grooming himself a fitting mate for his cause... But he wasn’t looking into the indomitably fierce gaze of the fire-born sylph now. This black and blue-eyed creature was a breed raised apart. Even more like him than the wildheart.

The devil’s eyes glittered as she approached, her steps forward gutsy and cautious. His tail, which had lifted from the ground, was waving back and forth in swift strokes, almost as eager to meet her as he would be to a more appropriately aged female. He gave her no reason to stay back, so she did not— by far his favorite trait in any wolf, and especially the kind of daring he liked to see in a she-wolf. Even one as young as her. His lips pulled back into a delighted grimace as she spoke, and rising like a feather, he poised himself low over his meal. “A wicked little haunt to challenge me?” he laughed, his face wildly amused; wholly engaged by her mannerisms. He meant no insult, made clear by his impressed expression and willingness to participate in her spar. He happily shouted “Come! Take it from me.”

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