Wheeling Gull Isle hike up your skirt a little more

help?

There was little that could surprise the earthstalker, but that was one of them. The woman’s feeble voice grasped after the word as if it was her own breath, and during her repetitions Komodo found himself craning closer and closer, not certain that he was hearing her correctly. His ears fluttered against the sound of her plea, utterly speechless, but the tiny lady gained confidence and turned her demand into a request. How could he not oblige?

Komodo backpedaled a step, as if to get a better look at the russet stranger. He ticked his chin down several degrees and regarded her hotly, his gaze seeking [in earnest] the information his mouth could not yet request. Perhaps it was not the right moment to analyze the vulnerable woman— he had always the soft spot for broken things, in need of healing — but he was struck with an ominous sense of forboding of the whole thing. Why was the first wolf to greet him upon a foreign, feral and starving thing? Where were the others? Had his trust in his council been misplaced?

There was an uncertainty to the whole thing that Komodo could not surrender himself to. When it struck, it struck hard.

Komodo blinked slowly, releasing the grit of his teeth. “I will,” he gruffed in his roughhewn tone. The few paces he had put between them were recovered as he took several steps closer,  in a manner that was ginger and querying — yet there was a power to it that suggested his taking control of the situation. “Who did this t’yuh?” he prompted, hungering for the answer.

He would not stand for wolves who could not take care of their own.