Dragoncrest Cliffs the patron bird of the vore fetish

To call things simply pretty different is a drastic understatement. Half the wolves she knew before are gone, replaced with others she doesn’t know. Having Max and Saarthal with her makes it a little easier, a little more like home, but she’s only lying to herself if she admitted it was back to normal. Or that Drageda felt like home. Again. After all? She doesn’t know anymore.
 
She gives her friend a tight lipped smile and nods. Yeah. Pretty different.
 
“It’s like… a whole new place,” she explains. “Except I know where everything is.”
 
Mallaidh begins to walk the familiar path along the borders. Little has changed that hasn’t been expected seasonally. She remembers certain trees and turns, the familiar markers; it’s hard to forget something that’d been so routine.
 
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, for a long time,” she starts and licks her lips. She does not hear her mother’s voice, but she can feel it, sitting in the back of her mind. I can do this, she thinks to her mother. “My name isn’t Furi. I mean, it’s my name—uh,” she stammers, turning to glance to the side. Her chest tightens, caged by the awkward start of her conversation. “My real name is Mallaidh. Mallaidh Furiosa Fearghal.” A deep breath releases, having been sitting behind her ribs for months. Months. That is my name. She sets her features as best she can, a bit of a smile, a bit of pride, and a lot of uncertainty in expectation.
 
(That is your name. It is a good name.)