Deepwood Weald [m] lxix. love, hunt me down

"Kjalarr," the dove chirps, both in greeting and surprise when the northman approached. She should've guessed he might be found patrolling the Weald as it seemed a familiar haunt for him, though the herd-watcher had wrongly assumed the he-wolf would be guarding his claim along the shores. 

The wilderness in him seemed more pronounced, the pale taper of his muzzle rising to sniff the condemning scent of her that hid nothing. Lótë had had no intentions of becoming Amil again this season either, had even put efforts forth to avoid such an encounter. With the man before her, such intentions began to crumble and likewise she yearned to go to him as if lured in the same manner that had drawn Kjalarr to find her. 

"Tell me something," she pleaded softly, still hesitant, as her gaze dipped to sand colored paws. "If I were to have your children...and one of them was different from the rest, would you condemn them as malformed?" Peridots flickered back to his scarred but handsome face searchingly, looking for some falsehood or judgement. 

She would not see her cubs cast aside a second time.