Tuktu Hinterlands more, give me more

She waited—there was no attempt to her name, and instead, one word was given: Engi. A translation, perhaps?

The crinkle of his muzzle bespoke to her of distaste of her pronunciation. Their language was beautiful—she felt completely inadequate, trying to repeat it in the same manner it fluidly came from their own tongues. “Stjor,” she spoke more slowly now, focusing for the moment on saying his name properly as it rolled from her tongue.

And then when he motioned to her and repeated something—Engi—did she understand that he was bestowing a new name upon her. ‘Meadow,’ was seemingly a name not leaving their lips, and she felt a furrow on her rust-coloured brows as she considered this. “Engi,” she confirmed, wondering that if she argued it, they would even pay heed to her.

What she didn’t understand was the conversation that occurred between the two—did the intimidating rakes have sore butts? Was that simply part of their language?

She remained quiet—for a stolen moment—before deciding to continue with this strange introduction. Her muzzle swung to the dark wolf who spoke now, her tail curling idly to his haunch. “Name?”