Sun Mote Copse You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room.

She did not find his name odd when he offered it, but did quirk her head slightly as the voice hit her ears. Maybe because the curl blocked the deep quality, or maybe it was because he sounded so familiar and so like her despite being so antithetical to what she was used to. The few dogs she'd met in her previous life had been more obnoxious than him, and the names their masters called at them were dissonant (Buddy was a common one, Shadow another, or Precious in the case of one ugly wool-covered poodle). His name suited him though, she thought. Whatever a bronco was, whatever its significance, it somehow fit him perfectly. The concern he showed her was welcome, too.

I am alright, she murmurs as she tries to stand up. Her chest rises first, then she un-tucks her rear legs from where they've tangled in the ferns. Her tail - naturally long and coarsely furred - whips at them once or twice. The sunlight that pierces the canopy slants across the pair of them in thick beams of gold, catching on the red of her brow, giving the cool darkness of her fur a warm luster. Blackheart tries to shake off what little bits and pieces are still stuck against her fur, most of which look like small brown shells of vellum which were once tiny seed pods; a bramble or two are tucked against one armpit. Tiny red fronds of dead pine debris stuck to her haunches with a little sap.

She feels a twinge in her lower back as she shakes. A wave of something like vertigo sweeps through her - maybe she was concussed a little bit? It faded a moment later, but the disorientation makes her take a step sideways to brace herself, and she sways a little bit closer to him. Headrush - ugh, sorry, I... Not a nice feeling. She ducks her head and hopes it will steady her, and it does. It also gives her the appearance of deference in the face of this wild creature. It doesn't occur to Blackheart that she might be out-of-place here, or that she might offend with the slightest variation of her own posture, not that a lowered head would be rude by wolf standards.