Rising Sun Valley Frostflame Ridge

“Not eating dirt!” protested Cthulhu, despite the dark debris that lingered on her tongue as it poked between her teeth. The auburn-streaked thick hair upon her nape seemed to prickle as though she was offended by the accusation. The truth was that she was fearful—the very thought of this creature casting her back into solitude was a real threat to Cthulhu, in spite of her lacking social skills.

“The ground nourishes, see,” she said quickly, nodding as though to affirm her own point and solidify it in their mind. “Can't eat it but it... it takes the pain away. So it nourishes, see?” Oh, how desperate Cthulhu was to have her compulsion to lick the ground understood. She really had no explanation for having done so, other than sheer desperation, but an attempt to make some sort of logical sense, however terrible an attempt it was, was made nonetheless.

Dagger introduced herself with the stiffening of ears and tail, and Cthulhu grovelled more readily in light of this being a wolf of the glacier. “Oh please oh please oh please,” the emaciated coywolf whined into the ground as she wriggled toward Junior, “please, Dagger, spare this one! This one's name is Cthulhu, Dagger, Cthulhu of The Dread. I... I meant no harm!” The shift out of semi-third person into normal first person was seamless and yet jarring, but Cthulhu had always spoken brokenly, switching tenses without even meaning to. It had a lot to do with being stuck in the same den with the same deranged mother and siblings for almost five months longer than a typical wolf pup was—she was plainly inept.