Sawtooth Spire You must've gone and put a spell on me

Wylla's mirth stung Stag. It was clear as day, but the woman could no more hide her expressions than she could turn day to night with a sweep of her paw. She'd always been an open book, albeit a thorny one. It was too easy to tell when she was amused, when she was angry, when she was pleased—it all showed in the sunny dancing of her eyes. A noncommittal mumble betrayed Stag's discomfort, which only made it all funnier. He was embarrassed! How adorable.

Luckily, his next comment hid the fact that her peal of laughter was actually an uncontrolled outburst. By all appearances she had laughed at his cruel, but understandable comment. She deserved worse than a knock on the head, Wylla opined, tail swaying jovially at the recollection of Stag slamming face-first into the log. Would've been nice if it was her. Or if she got stuck. We could've torn her ass off and kept it for a trophy.

If Stag thought he would find a prim and proper she-wolf who balked at the thought of maiming others in Wylla, he would be sorely mistaken.