Hushed Willows Pacific

As Exousia beheld the wolf, she experienced a flush of excitement course through her. His form was dashing in all the right ways, carved solid of lumber and shale. He was scarred but unafraid – as there was little worse in her opinion than a mongrel both maimed and fearful – and his potent scent matched his tall, proud stance. He ventured closer; she did not retreat, but the steel harpy tucked her chin in a guarded motion, observing him thoughtfully.

His accent reached her, the masculine music bringing a faint twitch to her attentive ears. She had never heard such a voice, and her dark eyes flickered with a light of curiosity. Her tail began to wag, inviting him nearer, extending her muzzle inquiringly.

She was careful, ever so careful, to allow herself space to escape his teeth. Her entire body remained tense, wired to flee in the millisecond it would take for him to turn violent, but her nose began to work furiously as she detected the varying scents clinging to his fur: the sea, the salt, the wolves – some stronger than others. There was something else too, something primal and alluring.

She snorted it out, clearing her thoughts.

I am Exousia, she answered readily. What is it you are called, seafarer? She started to circle, stealing more of him as she went, her leonine figure incredibly reactive to his nearness.