The Heartwood Hopping through the forest

Blanc observed the other. The wolf was more handsome than she was pretty, but truth be told, Blanc preferred that in any specimen. Strength was preferred to dainty femininity; Blanc was a fifty fifty mix. Surely not dainty, but undoubtedly a woman. The quiet confidence the other possessed was swiftly mirrored in the lifting of her own head, the flaring of her nostrils. Dignity was something the Tartok woman had plenty of, the trait instilled in her at an early age. Her family history—maternal and paternal—was something to be proud of. And she worked for a high place. And now, independence. A new life.

It was something to be proud of. The other seemed to sense something, and was immediately complacent in submission. Some lone wolves for a reason unknown to Blanc preferred that solitary life, the life that could only lead to death inevitably. Particularly now with the weather only growing colder. Blanc could not understand what the other said, though perhaps it too was a greeting in kind. But she had never needed language. Tartok never needed verbalization. And so Blanc took the initiative. Her strides were long and decisive as she neared Galena with confidence, her tail swaying to display her amicability. For now, Blanc was not aggressive, only curious, and it showed in the slight tilt of her head, the swiveling of her ear. Unlike her, Galena smelt of nowhere. Perhaps her language might have been a crippling blow elsewhere, but Blanc knew words were nothing in the scheme of things.

The Tartok yearling paused when she was close to Galena, then took a step forward. May I? She seemed to ask, wanting to investigate the other further.