Fairspell Meadow Whiplash

By the time the yearling had reached the old woman, he was breathless and warm. The sun peered through the clouds and clung to the dark hairs along his head and back. The scents upon his fur coat would give him away. He had spent many days in the sands to the south, hunting the creatures that thrived in the wicked heat.

Drawing his golden glinting stare up to her face, Stormchaser smirked.

You look like you woke up from a long nap, the boy growled. His tone sat on the razor thin edge between mocking and familiar. In truth, Qiao looked as she always did - cold, watchful. The sharpness of her stare no longer sliced through him. He’d grown to weather her withering looks.