Wapun Meadow Wreath

Wake gave his partner a gentle nudge of affirmation, as if to say, I, too, cannot wait for spring!

You know, the wolf who raised me was named for the spring season. She was called Spring’s— He stopped short as another voice rang out.

Ears pressed forward, onyx emeralds narrowed and darted to find the source: a hale, icewhite male with eyes too dark to discern color from at this distance.

Wake’s tail lifted into a greeting wave, his posture belying a confident comfortableness with the other’s approach. It did not go unnoticed that the stranger seemed unwilling to acknowledge Kirain, but rather than attribute it to something nefarious, he pitied the wolf. What kind of ignoble upbringing or trauma would one have to experience to ignore the fairer of the two standing there?

Perhaps, he was a sword-swallower, interested only in what Wake could offer. It was this intriguing thought alone that kept him from dismissing the interloper outright…

Kirain surprised him by showing no offense, and a tendril of warmth pulsed through his black heart to find her spirit untainted by such foolishness. His languid pose remained, his smile easy, lazy. I think that is a fine idea, my lady.

His muzzle hiked up towards the stranger. Show us, he agreed. Let us pluck the largest one for the others to see.