Swiftcurrent Creek Gladfly Suite

She seemed nervous but still relaxed against the soft ground of his home. He inspected her gently—testing her—her gaze seeking the other direction. She spoke one word—her voice different in fluctuation than normal—and his suspicions began then.

She had not heard his announced presence because she could not.

He considered this a moment. She was youthful—thinning as the life of a lone wolf took its biting toll, but otherwise seemingly healthy. A gentle thing—a wolf their hardened pack could use, perhaps.

Or, she would crumble amongst the roguish warriors.

“Akavir,” he offered then, but not before lifting his muzzle, his face pointing to her to allow her to see the movement of his lips—could she read them?

“Swiftcurrent Creek,” he offered then, his own words forming more slowly than normal. And then, a tilt of his head, his forehead bending down to bump hers softly. Welcoming, should she wish it—placing his scent upon her in acceptance.