Blackfoot Forest City nights

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Still shaken by the battle, Junkyard Dog had remained silent, yet watchful. It was, in part, her fault. Not only because of her simple presence, but also due to her piss poor performance as a guard. Her watch had failed, plain and simple, and she had risked them all. It was this knowledge, paired with the sense of impending doom that had dogged her since the crash, that had driven her to misery. Though she would hardly let it show in her demeanor, she was afraid.

Tired.

Perhaps that was it. Tired. Tired, though she cleaned her wounds with the diligence of a survivor. Tired, though she followed among the group as she always would.

She was wary, still, of the wolves. Their encounter had shaken her beyond the knowledge of her own failure. They were powerful, and their numbers were great. Alone, none of them stood a chance. So when she saw the sighthound delve into the dark of the forest, she followed. In a fight, she knew she could do little to protect the dog, but there is a safety in numbers, and two dogs are less likely to get attacked than one.

So Junkyard Dog trotted after Sweet Tooth, barking to catch her attention once they were both in the trees. "Dog," she called, "I will come."