Swiftcurrent Creek tongue-tickling bubble juice

It was at this point that Olive decided that she was done. The ruffian took a heavy-handed step towards her, eyes ablaze, finally finding voice in the form of a snarling growl. Olive lifted her kittenish lip, albeit feebly [as it still felt quite foreign!], and returned his sentiments. The area at the nape of her neck, right above her shoulderblades, stung quite sharply despite the thickness of her skin. Still, she was so delicate — how could she have forgotten? She was Olive, peacekeeper and star-reader and humble servant of the gods; but this pale wastrel, cowering upon the permafrost, was not that wolf! She was mishandling herself again!

Without giving too much thought to it, Olive turned tail and abandoned the riverside, vowing to avoid the area forever — or until she knew this awful beast had moved on.