Ghost Lion Crag And the rain

The wolf stirred, but Smokestep did not move from his position. His heterochromatic gaze followed her movements lazily until she stood upright and watched him with a wary glint to her eyes. He had missed a great opportunity to catch the tail end of a meal, so the seafaring soul remained to see if he could get anything else from the stranger. She did not appear as though she was foolish enough to let him approach without good reason. Flicking his tongue across his muzzle, the ghost took a few careful steps in her direction before pausing and lifting his head upward. His dark lips curled at the edges, providing him with a crooked leering expression. His tail flagged twice before returning to sit midway between his hocks. They appeared like two statues for a moment, trapped in time.

“Ahoy, lass,” he woofed in a quiet tone. One ear swiveled atop his crown, but he did not move aside from this. She had yet to speak to him, but he imagined that this was because he had startled her. They were relatively alone, after all. But she no longer had a meal at her feet, and had become less likely to be attacked for that very reason. Still, Kingfisher watched her with a squint to his gaze – his lopsided smirk had not wavered.