Wapun Meadow New is always better

another wolf, standing in the middle of the meadow.

astara watched him warily -- who was he, what was his purpose here so close to her home?

she hungrily studied the rippling of rust along his pelt, the crisp striation of white. a little like her own daughter, but less pretty -- less harmonious.

it was too bad he was an outsider.

astara strode through the mud with her tail curled in a sickle behind her. her gaze never left merlin, and unless he moved, she would violate every sense of personal space he had as she drew from his pelt any scent of interest.