Blackfeather Woods when we all fall asleep; where do we go

he gave her nothing but the primitive greeting of their kind. astara accepted it, watching as his flat eyes roved over her frame. it was rare a wolf greeted her in such a way -- and while it was the salutation of choice and the preferred language of her species, it seemed too few wolves spoke the original tongue: the language of old, when their ancestors roamed this earth and had naught but coarsely wagging tongues in which to eat and sup and little else.

she stepped away once the ritual had been completed, having found little scent of value in his pelt. her gaze drew to the bird, which waited with a strangely obedient mein behind the man.