Swiftcurrent Creek Can't forget your style or your cynicism

Rain—the sound of it as it washed across the budding leaves and grounds serving only to remind him of the cozy enclosure he had recently discovered with a certain silver she-wolf—in the final hours before the last remnants of his heart had all but been snuffed out.

Rounding his final stretch of the borders, the splash of mud and muck was a rather apt symphony to play in tandem of his thoughts—but the distinct scent of something else mingled.

He trailed after the intruder—but a certain innocence clung to them—he could tell. The mixture of milk and fear—of a gilded dancer who had come careening back into the lives of the creek.

So when his eyes trailed over the pup who definitely should not have been here, he felt a frown pull at his features before trying to quickly suppress it—he didn’t need to scare her, after all. “Hey,” he called, trying to lift his voice above the steady drum of the rain. “You lost, kid?”