Porcupine Ridge leshen

The beast staggered—it fought. Stigmata delivered its final blow, which was fitting. The snow was stained red, and the gypsy curled her tongue delicately along her own lips, trying to clean the crimson stain that now marred her pelt. Glancing to him sideways, the she-wolf remained respectful in her graceful posture—the sylph’s tail curling neutralizing along the back of her legs as he feasted first, as was befitting an Alpha.

She contemplated their fell in silence, her ears sliding back to her skull as she contemplated the emotions that furled in her chest. It had been awhile since camaraderie had been so apparent to her, and she found the war hound’s presence comforting.

Her eyes slid over him, a light frown pulling at her delicate features. “You’re hurt,” she purled in her smoky voice, tentatively taking a step toward him.