Emberwood and he sang about what i'd become

caw does not much care for this stranger's presence when he already has so exciting a thing to watch. his eyes are still fixed on the dying raven, even as the crunching of snow signals the closer approach of the wolf he'd noticed earlier. the bird's struggles are growing rapidly weaker, red spreading further and further across the patchy snow while caw watches like a vulture circling its dying prey.

avis is, instead, the one who looks up when the wolf approaches from where she is perched on caw's upper back. she scans the stranger with no movement but the flick of her blood-red eyes and refolds her wings in a rustle of feathers, letting out a short, sharp caw as the woman speaks.

caw's ears flick. "manere," he protests, before he registers the stranger's words. only then does he lift his muzzle, the fur around his mouth dark with blood; he cocks his head, his unblinking stare only redirected from the bird to the new wolf. because she responded correctly -- not in latin, but correctly. perhaps she speaks his language too?

caw wiggles briefly in place, excited by the idea. "salve!" he chirps. "quis es?"