Phoenix Maplewood true like ice, true like fire

Sunday Morning did not wait for too long a time. 

Her head turned as she heard the sound of the grasses stirring and the underbrush groaning, then snapping. Her ears pricked alertly on her head, but the wind brought answers with it. Her tail swayed behind her, and then there was Mountain Stone. Sunday Morning looked to him, clearly glad to see him as revealed by the many sways of her tail and then, her quick approach. He did not have meat in his mouth, but he carried with him stories on his furs.

This myriad of scents was vaguely familiar to her. He wore many of them on their first meet, though not all. Sunday Morning considered the newer scents, snuffling quietly as she separated one from the other, discovering.

His greeting to her, though, confirmed her own standing with him, she felt. His growl was met with an eager, high-pitched whine. Mountain Stone's spirit was a kindred one. He had answered her call for this reason, and yet another one still. As she leaned into his greeting, she too moved to lave the side of his own muzzle where she could reach, moving to press her chest against his own in that familiar way. Not to rekindle the flame they had fanned together in the way of lust, but to deepen that bond through doting and familiar touch. 

In her minds eye, she saw her father chasing away many men—and her mother minding her elder sisters that remained. Her brothers had departed. Some brought back another with them. So many outcomes. All for the better of her pack, in the end. 

She moved to reach to nip the fur of his shoulder fondly, before circling him loosely to meet him at his side, shoulder to shoulder. Sunday Morning let out a low, curious note; would he take her to where it was he had been?