Emberwood it becomes a dance

Anselm wasn’t certain, but at one point it almost sounded like the howling wolf was calling a name dangerously familiar. Chalking it up to a fluke, Anselm’s nose brought him right to the Dragonling.

Besides being loud AF, Anselm’s first impression of the wolf was ‘shit, he’s taller than me’. His gaze flicked from lean pale limbs to open white face, the dual colors of the stranger’s eyes inscrutable.

Lingering like a veil around the man was a scent Anselm recognized; the offbeat woman that had been flanking Etienne months prior. He was about to adjust the surliness of his face to garner good favor when the man spoke, his expression guarded but tone neutral.

Neutrality didn’t mean much to Anselm, who only heard “fuck off” written loudly between the lines. His ears clapped forward in disbelief, a snort pressed from his long muzzle. And I vould appreciate it if you vould shut up. Curling his lips back, Anselm decided not to even bother asking this man if Odessia knew where Etienne was. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember the peculiar little wolf’s name, and he hadn’t been around her long enough to say with certainty she knew his either.

With a petulant lash of his tail, Anselm set to do exactly as suggested — but not without a juvenile scrape of both hind legs. If the splatter of dirt hit Cambria, oh well. Accident. Promise.