Sawtooth Spire Cliffrose

Sultry words purred from an unknown voice. Sphinx turned, golden eyes seeking until they latched to a dark-furred thing with a watchful, intelligent stare. The pearl smiled. 

Nothing is coincidence, shadow, he said. 

A few graceful steps drew the pale wolf toward the dark one. This inky fellow did not smell like the wolf-scent that carried on the air. This one was a wanderer and he wore the aroma of the wild trees, the churning wind. Only a few steps remained between them. Sphinx’ expression had softened. 

What are you called?