Emberwood Living in a wasteland

there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes at her quip about being a den inspector. he offers her a relenting, lower of his head, as if to say touché.

so, he turns halfway towards her, black paws heavy upon the ground, and offers her a flick of his tail in acknowledgement. why do you wander, instead of finding a pack to run with? a question he raises her in return.

curious eyes upon her, followed by the quirk of a brow. he knows the solitude of wandering, but he also knows the warmth of camaraderie. perhaps it’s that contrast that makes him ask—not to pry, but to understand.