Bitterroot Valley she had been forced into prudence in her youth,

Imaq smiled as easily as she had spoken with the lilac-eyed he-wolf, finding his company amiable and enjoyable. Cracked aquamarines, struck through with neptunian sapphire, drifted over the Graf’s inky shoulder to the horizon that would lead her back to Duskfire. 

“Just Imaq and Mahler,” the isabella merle surmised in her jilted speech before her gaze returned to her companion. “Mahler think they hunt good, just two?” It was embarrassing that she lacked the capability to express more complex thoughts but she was improving and tried to take heart in this fact. Besides, Mahler seemed a patient and kind sort — even if they hadn’t known each other long. Imaq didn’t think her lack of proper syntax and grammar would change his opinion of her.