Bearclaw Valley peccato meo munda me

were it not for the sag of her stomach and the now retuning pain in her back, she would have bared fangs at the annoyance. would have. would have.

they yapped at her heels like a puppy, and each line from their maws chipped away at her patience until, aggravated, the beardog whirled around - staggering and tripping, yes, but the final upwards swing of her head was defiant as she came to stare straight at the annoyance.

they were smaller than others of their kind, but still she was the dwarf. the tilt of her head let light into her eye sockets, showing two dark orbs - not as black as theirs, nor framed by white - bulging with anger.

a word-snarl was forming in her mouth, when another drowned it.

the bruin-heart was like shadow gives thickness, parting from the landscape on long legs flashing fury in silver eyes. for all her subdued manner of thinking, speaking, acting, the beardog was at once jolted, backing away sideways from the full-grown he-wolf.

over her own paws she tripped, toppling onto her side, but there was little doubt she'd be permitted to rise, or shift in a position permitting her to protect what she carried.

as a reaction, tiny ears flattened back - and that was the extent of communication her body, stunted for human aesthetic, permitted.