Lake Rodney Kill Wanheda, and you command death.

Dacio lifted his proud head when he was done quenching what previously felt like an incurable thirst. His tongue snaked between his lips to catch a stray droplet from his chin, followed by a thorough shake of his sterling pelt before he made to turn back toward the shore.

The approach of another drew his attention: a young wolf, with pallid furs that headed directly toward him. Dacio paused to observe her as she drew near and, curious, he took a moment to sweep the area for an accompanying adult with his gaze before focus returned to the ashen juvenile who halted close by.

It was what she said that made his dark ears prick, and the yearling Drakru blinked. Was it hope that made him believe she'd greeted him in his mother tongue, or perhaps she'd simply heard it from one of Drageda's natrona? "Hei," Dacio returned, and chose to test her ability: "is this your turf?"