Cerulean Cape blood canticle

Common sense and the subtle art of canine communication were not her forte. If only her sister were here.
In Hunting Ground, solitude was the norm. One mingled with others only to breed or to boast of hard-won victories. Exchanges—if one could even call them that—were typically swift, succinct, and often entirely one-sided.

Bared fangs had served as a warning—one the woman in the ivory coat had failed to read. Still, she had slowed her pace slightly, uncertain, ears lowered, eyes averted. Words—those she commanded well. Gestures, intentions? Far less so.

I’m looking for someone, she said at last, hoping to shift the dynamic, to defuse a situation she could not decipher.

You’ve been walking a long time, haven’t you? This time, her voice carried a hint of hesitation. She had only her earlier deduction to go on: paws roughened by the journey—traveler’s paws. Of that, there could be no doubt.