Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

he smells of a pack, and though it is obvious by his form and structure he smells of no illness.  perhaps, she muses, she should be more worried about running off with some stranger who just promises he'll take care of her.. but what she needs right now is to heal.

all she needs to know is what he wants from her in return.  her dedication?  her loyalty?  he has it, just as anyone else who would've taken her as a .. ward.  a "thrall," as he so chose to call it though she could not place the meaning.

he asks her name and she decides that she should keep that to herself for now.  and it wouldn't be unlike her to not have a name, now would it?  she shakes her head at his question, and speaks only his name, Wardruna?

he must think she is dull.  but there is.. intelligence behind her umbra orbs as they bore into him, asking without vocalizing.  

and he has another thrall!  maybe she would be good company.