Permafrost Hollows salut i força al canut

hover for english translations :)

The brute snapped its slender, bony maw and Majorca did not really care much for that — nor did she care at all. It was at this point that the flashing apparition had begun to feel contrite regarding her decision to leave the permafrost and descend from the heights; the lands below were overflowing with common folk, none of which could add anything to her life that she really wanted or valued. But as much as she was loathe to be interfacing with the dappled man in front of her, Majorca knew it was for the best. She now realized how badly the borders guarding the lower outskirts of her province needed refreshing; and even though her scent markers were not necessarily targeted towards canines [more to ward off the infrequent, ghostlike passing of other felines], the audacious wolf persisted in his approach. Though he was still welcome, many would have turned to flee. Speaking of many…

”¿On són els teus amics?” she spat, slipping easily into her native tongue as the thought began to distress her. Where there was one wolf, there was usually several more, waiting in the shadows for their time to strike — while the lion could easily combat one wolf and emerge a victor, success was not so certain when there was two or more. In that way, wolves fought without honor. The brute danced around her and so her moonbright, silverspun eyes remained locked upon his. She did not like the way he moved about and spoke so freely with his quicksilver tongue, even if most of the words were lost upon her. Her large head followed her gaze as he rounded about her, easily turning her neck [as would a curious owl] while keeping her body stilled. Realizing she needed to clarify in order to receive the information she so desired, Majorca rolled her dry, sandpaper tongue against the roof of her mouth and searched the registry of her mind to form a single word.

“Others?”