Porcupine Ridge leshen

The coiled tension in her chest relaxed as the beast breathed out, accepting the ministrations the sylph doled to him. The wound was not a grievous one—as long as it did not become infected, and as she continued to clean the injury, she could feel the shift of rising amusement as he eyed her, her own gaze flitting to his, wrought with perceived innocence.

His words drew a small smile to grace her lips, but she did not answer. Whatever wolves followed the dark wraith were undoubtedly like in mind with him, and she found herself desiring to meet them—to run with them. To place her loyalty and potential once more into another. And hopefully, this time, she would not be let down.

She finished cleansing him, and shifting her weight, the she-wolf slithered closer to the their fell, her jaws working at tearing some of the meat and organ for herself, barely containing rumbling growl of pleasure. Only after moments did she slither her way back to the ground, her own lissome form beside him, but allowing him his space.

Her tongue smoothed over her lips, her ears jutting forward at his request of her name. “Ketzia,” she responded, every fibre of her being very aware of his closeness. “What can I call you?”