Sawtooth Spire He's a man of few words, but he talks a lot within.

A low growl against the curve of his throat, a rumble that reverberated in her chest to slip past bared teeth. They chattered with her body's anticipation of his, clicking together as she fought an urge to deliver a sharp nip to the hide beneath her muzzle.

Instead, Nyx took a gentler approach. Her nose nuzzled between the dense raven fur there, searching, longing. She let him work through her own atop her shoulders, let him preen toughened guard hairs that lifted with the wolfish equivalent of goosebumps. More importantly, perhaps, the tawny Ostrega gave herself permission to enjoy Mahler's ministrations and exploration, so pressed herself firmly against his frame as he preened and pampered his way along her flank.

Soon he took his mount, hooked her hips between strong and eager forelimbs to guide himself into place. Nyx accepted him patiently, tail sweeping instinctively aside, and found herself holding a breath in quiet expectation of what was sure to follow.