Hushed Willows Don't be long, for the end is nigh

So — this was happening. Dusty Rose was bewildered by the invitation, but despite his wariness, he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to gawk at the tiny wolves.

Even if Reverie's next words brought him up a little short. He froze for a moment, an uneasy chill shivering down his spine.

'You named 'em?" he said, or maybe he asked, hanging back a little while, internally, he talked down his rising hackles. His worries didn't have long to settle in before one of them was bounding toward them, and his hackles went right back up even as his tail wheeled in delight.

Alright — so they were cute. So was he. It was nothing special. So he couldn't really explain what power forced him to his belly, placing himself at their level. The feeling in his chest wasn't quite sentiment so much as it was instinct.

His jaws ached, he realized. From clenching them tight together. He could hear his father's voice in his head. He said —

"It's okay, love. It's okay," and, "Oh god, flower," and, "Baby, what did you do?"

Foxglove.

Dahlia.

Dusty Rose felt sick to his stomach.

His teeth hurt when he made himself relax. The memories washed over him, and Dusty Rose examined them briefly, clinically, before letting them fade away. Still, when he spoke, he thought he could hear his father's voice overlaid: "Hi, baby." He was talking to Foxglove. Wildflower. "What do I smell like, huh? 'Cause I can tell you right now that you don't smell much like a flower, either."