Fairspell Meadow Keep me running, running scared

It is the closest the majority will ever get to a compliment from the male—for frost is his outer shell.

The woman spits the flowers before him, and his nose wrinkles in distaste. Sober will not harm their use, but that does not make him any less reluctant to coat his wounds.

“My ‘problem’?” Eyebrows lift. “Of course I know that. I am confused why you would bother. That is my ‘problem’.” He shuffles, nudging the flower he is after with his nose before taking it into his mouth and chewing. Once it is ready, he begins placing the mashed mix onto his bleeding paws.

“What are your intentions?” He says, lifting his eyes to squint at her.