Moonspear lawmother

When she saw the wolf, he was gallant; bright-eyed and strong, carrying a fish in jaws that smiled, tilted back. Along his shoulders were wounds that flashed with his movement, long, straight scars that must have come from sharp claws, and down the bridge of his muzzle, two more that drew her attention to his face. She blushed when he finally turned his deep, wildflower gaze toward her, feeling as though she'd been caught fawning over a stranger. She gave him a shy, girlish smile, and her tail swayed in the feathering of her hocks. 

It felt rude to interrupt his mission with conversation, especially when the fish he carried would taste much better if it was fresh. Not wanting to hold him up, she lowered her head and began to scout for the last of the summer's berries in the tangle of raspberry canes, hoping to blend back into the background so that when she turned again, she might catch sight of the tail end of him as he continued on.