Dragoncrest Cliffs tired of my turmoil.

The pale she-wolf didn’t heed the mass of black before her until the coyote—and herself—were yanked forward by an impressive tug on their opposite end. Despite her circumstance, she peered over the thrashing figure of the coyote  to see who, or what, had caused such a disturbance.

The glow of a storm yet to arrive alit on the dark, sturdy form of a young male. Her slim brow creased, more taken aback than grateful. Before she could inspect him more soundly, she noticed that the coyote was limp with fright between them. She took it upon herself, then, to wring it promptly by the scruff before letting it smack to ground.

Working her tired jaw, Aure hobbled a step or so back, and swiped her tongue over her own teeth. Eyes, cold and contemplative, scoured over thewrithing thing—and the hare in its mouth. Her own muzzle creased, ensnaring the scars on her face like redwood roots. Her hare.

She needed to eat.

Instead, she dragged her glaring gaze to the male before her, “Are there more than mere hares where you hail from?” Her voice was a low and lilting one; an accent so strange, so un-Teekon that it made her dismissal of this situation seem everyday-normal in comparison.