Silverlight Terrace Seppen

Prayers meant little to the white wolf. It was the presence of the man across from him that carried more weight. Shiranui did not grasp the importance of the preacher’s words. He understood only that the man had wished him well while they were apart, and he had returned looking very much the same. This must have been a good thing, for the religious figure appeared pleased by it.

Shiranui waved his tail, stepping back a few paces so that he might look over the preacher’s frame with his gaze. The unfamiliar scents still lingered on Bartholomew’s coat, but the white wolf had gathered enough of these aromas to feel content.

A tilt of his head was offered as a way of asking what the preacher had been up to.