Dragoncrest Cliffs deity of scars

A muscle of tension flexed along Svalinn’s jaw as the flame-furred leader lashed him with her accusatory tone. He started to have flashbacks of his contentious marriage with Drusilla, and he was suddenly glad not to be a younger wolf; one filled with rash behaviors and hair-trigger reactiveness. He let out a breath and gave one long blink.

I’m not here to join Sapphique, he responded flatly. I can’t join and still keep my promise to wait in the sound for my daughters to return. I told them I would be there. They could understand that, right? I only came to relay my allyship. You are the wolves that stood by my family, so I will stand by you, and I don’t need a rank or to carry your scents to know who I serve. I will do what I can for this pack as long as it is welcome.

He looked between the three of them, though focused mostly on the body language of the redhead in the middle. He didn’t know what he had done to offend her – and he could not possibly know that his mere existence was a full-on affront to her senses – but she seemed the most ready to chase him off.

The gold-slicked leader recited a short rhyme to him then. His mouth replicated the feeling of sand on his tongue, and mouth dry, he swallowed, nodding to her. I don’t have a problem telling you. But it’s more his story than it is mine… Sorry, Val. I tried to let you be the one to tell them. His mother is Raleska, my sister. She wasn’t ready to raise him, so she gave him to Erzulie and Rosalyn. I presume to be raised alongside you. It was only pure irony that neither himself nor the sisters before him were actually related to Val by blood.