The Wall Toome

he let out a low, dismissive huff, a sound as cold and sharp as the wind that swept down from the peaks. his gaze swept over the white wolf, her refusal striking no deeper than a flurry of snow against stone. his broad shoulders rolled in an easy shrug, the motion slow, deliberate.

...women, he muttered under his breath, the word laden with a rough-edged amusement that barely hid its patronizing weight. his lips curled faintly at the corners, though the expression was more wolfish than warm.

he lifted a paw, licking the spit from it with an idle flick of his tongue before dropping it back to the ground. i’m headed over the ridge. somethin’ worth takin’ down there, i reckon, he said, his voice deep and rolling, the northern burr unmistakable, like a growl softened by frost. if yer keen to join, well, that’s up to you...if you can make it up.

he took a step away, his frame moving with the easy confidence of a wolf born to harsh winters and harsher battles. as an afterthought, his voice came again, quieter but no less firm, the trace of a smirk lingering.

if silence’s yer preference, i’ll keep me mouth shut.

and with that, faust turned, his tail cutting through the air like a banner in the wind, leaving the offer to trail behind him as he began to move.