Chimera Fields pastel ghost

He doesn't expect such a flood of relief to surge through him as she breaks out into laughter; it makes him feel like he has passed some sort of test. It speaks to the social coding doubtless inside all wolves, woven into the warp and weft of biology and mythology alike.

Anyways, it doesn't feel so bad to hear his name spoken by someone else. His ears flick back, venting some of her infectious energy.

Maybe you'll find a new kind of flower, he muses, half-serious. You could call it... Pukei-lyptus.

Or, he says, with his nose to the grass, get this: a Pukei of flowers.

His voice is dryer than snakeskin, but a sure smile slants his mouth. He looks up and back at her as if to ask, eh? was that anything? before he sets his attention to the ground again, though all the blossoms might as well have been skunkweed to him.