Bearclaw Valley chamomile

Kristjan’s high wagging tail flagged downward as another, much more fearsome creature, burst forth from the stiff cover of shrubbery. Startled, he turned to press himself and his brother back only to find that Sven had moved to shield him! The boy forced down his panic, now afraid that his littermate was in harm’s way, and his pale eye squinted, allowing his good eye to focus.

The piebald wolf had the bristling of a boar and the scars of a warrior, his technicolor fur tangled in feral ornaments. He could’ve been the host of his own Animal Planet show, “Goin’ Crazy in the Woods with Patches MacPinepelt,” airing every evening at 10 p.m.

He nodded to the older wolf, his own features strained with worry for his brother. I am Kristjan.

Swiftlet!

Kristjan looked to the girl sharply, both eyes wide now. You know our bróðir? He nudged Sven gently, urging him to relax, as he pressed forward to speak more to the hollowkin. Have you seen him? Is he here? He hadn’t seen Swift since he’d abandoned the meeting. He looked to the guardian again. We mean no harm here. We only came to – uh, establish, he glanced uncertainly towards Sven, a sort of… relationship? Between our packs.