Sawtooth Spire For thirty minutes bet we played that game

"Hi, Wylla." The yearling returned, his breath half-held as she motioned for him to come along. Stag hung back for the briefest moment as he analyzed Wylla's invitation -- he was giddier than a school-girl to be invited to stride alongside her, but he planned his advancement carefully: one big fat clown foot in front of the next.

Out of deference, his nose did not pass Wylla's shoulder: he followed as she lead the way, an ear turned attentively to her.

Some wolves were bashful under compliments, others drank it in. Stag was neither of the wolves; he accepted the statement with quiet poise unusual for him, his tongue ever so slightly tied as he tried to explain what the little Liebling was to him.

He might not need to say anything at all; his eyes lit up as he thought of Phaedra, of their silly games of kiss tag, of him rounding up flowers for her, of her little quaint garden. Life was brighter with her in it, somehow.

"Thank you for letting me watch her. It's fun -- and she's always showing me new perspectives. There's never a boring moment." He smiled to himself -- that was the odd thing about children, they tended to make you see through their eyes rather than your own, which often became clouded and jaded with time.