Hushed Willows oh no, i’m sorry if i smothered you,

Breathing comes easy enough regardless of how it made her feel; this uncontrollable process that forces the lungs to expand, the cage of ribs to shift (painfully, one might add), then cease and withdraw. If she focused on the feeling too much she would be stuck at a stand-still; this is certainly what transpires as the stranger draws closer. The sound—then the sight—of their approaching silhouette gives those eyes something new to trace. She follows the shape as it corporealizes; ears shudder at the deafening sound of the voice until she realizes that she understands. Not all the sounds, but most of them. They carry a weight although she cannot discern what the intonation truly means, and the vessel's eyes narrow, confusion replaced by scrutiny.

Hurt—she knows this word. It is not an experience she remembers. The strange creature is looking at the vessel with an apprehensive aura that stitches them in place; they do not come too close, just close enough to see the streaks of red, to study the vessel which Djinn has made her home. Where...—the voice is grating, it is rough, deeper than one might've ascribed to them, but really it is the act of making any sound at all which makes the fallen pause.

She must be here for a reason; father must have cast her out—No, he would not do that to her—but she hurts! Thoughts are a jumble inside; a frown creases the vessel's wide face and then she, piloting those eyes, looks to the strange shape of the other wolf and commands: You will fix this. There is a flavor to those words that is confounding for all of its minerality, and as she comes to notice this, the vessel's tongue draws across a pointed snout and leaves a streak of red behind—blood?