Silvertip Mountain holy holy

Though her paws were nimble and surefooted, Eirlys’ lungs were burning by the time she reached the summit spiced with wolfscent. Her glacial, pleochroic eyes seemed more green than blue as she traversed through the unfamiliar terrain, panting lightly despite the chill in the air. She didn’t share Olive’s grief or Dalia’s wish to see the world from a bird’s eye view — she simply succumbed to the itch in her paws that urged her further and further from the forest where her godmother, littermate, and half-siblings slept. Small, triangular ears perked with interest as she crested a small ridge and espied at last the bearers of the scents she’d caught. She was thirsty, but too awkward in the company of strangers to shoulder her way through the brush and take her own place at the river. One ear fanned out and to the side, betraying her uneasiness.

Unlike Ceallach, whose tapered features and streamlined build were made in papa’s image, Eirlys was drawn with a heavy hand. Her plush fur and more boldly etched musculature mirrored the sturdy northern stock of the Enok Tundra, and in a few short months she would be as tall as Lotte had been. Already she was quite clearly the biggest girl in the room in both height and girth. The freckle-faced female with bewitching bicolored eyes and the gamine, mist-shrouded sylph who stood riverside were sketched with even finer lines than Ceallach — perhaps as exquisitely-fashioned as Hemlock. Because of her familiarity with Hemlock and Reed, though, Eirlys didn’t feel bad about how large she was. She was simply mindful of it. Most of her insecurities came from within.

Eirlys sat, mindful of her white-capped paws and the sweep of her cocoa-dusted tail. When she caught her breath, she sought to break the silence — but she wasn’t a great conversationalist, and the best she could muster was a rather blunt, “Are you friends already?” in her lilting brogue.