Haunted Wood Laying in the churchyard looking for signs

The wolfdog had not seen the soft sand colors of the stranger. It had not been until the wolf had spoken that Thisbe turned her dark ears and locked eyes on the figure who had called out, said that she was a twigbrain. The wolfdog scoffed softly at this, frowning toward the figure. Thisbe’s frame was stiff with distrust and fear, but the wolfdog did not immediately turn to run.

When asked if she was lost, Thisbe nodded her head.

The dark figure had not realized that without the guiding shape of Pyramus, she would not easily find her way back to the den in the woods where he had left her. She had not worried about it, not at first. It had not been until the wolfdog had lost all sense of direction that she faltered.

There was a modicum of hope in Thisbe’s heart. Perhaps this harsh-tongued wolf would be kinder up close. Tentative paws reduced the space between them as Thisbe issued a quiet whimper.