Larksong Grotto death blossom

“Won’t bite,” the wolf promised with an air of carefree agreeableness. Then, with the chivalry that characterized him when he was of sound mind, “I wouldn’t let you get hurt,” he said, sounding alarmed that anyone might even suggest such a thing. “I’m been tryin’ not to make you mad, Alya,” he added with a flicker of mingled guilt and resentment. The name at the end popped out utterly without his realizing it, and he dropped his chin to his forepaws for a moment before thinking back on what he’d just said. Alya. Alya. It felt like the syllables ought to mean something, but he was so tired. His head was so heavy. “Sssorry,” he said hesitantly, drawing out the first syllable with a modicum of confusion.

“I don’t wanna make you mad.”