The Heartwood imperfection's glow

Trust was not something that came easily to the yearling— in her youth, she had kept her mouth firmly shut around strangers, communicating only through body language. As if it would protect her if they wished her harm. It had only been amplified by her captivity; held against her will by the Sunspire, Magpie had resorted to silence and starvation to stage her protest. That had worked to her advantage. Even after that, the young female had not known the comforting life of pack for long. Her year of life had been nothing but travel, the loneliness and uncertainty of having no pack to call her own. It was all she knew. As she aged, she had grown comfortable with her independence. She had learned to trust in herself, and silence no longer seemed like protection— Magpie could speak, and if things went sour, she trusted in herself to escape.

But Magpie was also extroverted in nature, and longed for company. It was lucky that the other appeared to be harmless— at the least, she didn't seem to view Magpie as competition. "Thanks," the dark youth said simply, eyes on the stranger as she lowered herself to eat what she could tear from the remaining carcass. It seemed likely that the female would go her own way, but the yearling hoped she wouldn't— there were only a few bites, anyway. It would be good to talk to someone, anyone, and it might distract her from the anxieties that threatened to bubble up beneath her surface.