Otatso Wetlands mud masks

Irene inclined her head slightly, allowing the brief touch of Rala’s nose to her own. It was a gesture she didn’t often share, but something about the snowwoman’s sincerity made it feel natural, unforced. When Rala spoke her name again, Irene couldn’t help the small, amused smile that played on her lips, as though the sound of it coming from Rala’s accented voice was a curiosity in itself.

Not many, Irene admitted, her emerald gaze drifting briefly to the horizon. These lands are vast, but the wolves within them... well, let’s just say I’m particular about who I let close.

Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a guardedness beneath the surface, the kind that came from living a life where trust was earned rather than given freely. In truth, all interactions were fleeting, never more then a passing greeting and no offering of a new home. She flicked her tail, shifting her weight as her eyes returned to Rala’s dawn-hued ones.

And you, Rala? How many stories have you collected from these lands? Irene’s head tilted slightly, a playful glint in her gaze now. You strike me as someone who enjoys a good tale, whether it’s told by others or made by your own pawprints.