Meadowlark Prairie Lovely and provocative butcher paper silhouettes of slavery era self-mutilation

He felt guilty about it, but even as Vanity spoke, Dragomir's attention was on her face rather than the words she spoke. He wasn't so absorbed as to miss them, but there was a conspicuous beat after she delivered her news where he should reply, but didn't. It passed soon enough and he started, blinking rapidly and saying, oh, that sounds like it sucks. Did Nightwalkers have poor border defenses or something? He didn't mean to judge at all, but for a wolf being raised with Moonspear's aggressive custom, it was hard to take a pack seriously that couldn't keep coyotes out.

It didn't say anything about Vanity, though, just her pack. Maybe a little about her judgment, to remain with such a pack. Dragomir recalled his encounter with Hela, how she'd claimed to be their Warlord. Made sense now. If they were being led by a literal child, then maybe they were too busy dealing with their internal issues to take care of their coyote problem.

Vanity then offered to help, sharing some good advice, and he watched with rapt interest as she lowered her muzzle and ran her tongue over the ground. Wasn't something Dragomir ever would've thought to do, but it was effective. Her warm tongue and breath laved away the thin layer of blowing snow, revealing an ice-encrusted print underneath. Where'd you learn to do that? he couldn't help but to ask. Meanwhile, he loped along the trail, pausing a couple feet along to try Vanity's tactic for himself.