Overture Downs field of dandelions

“Akavir,” he offered, as she moved closer, eyes sweeping over the lissome creature. She seemed the embodiment of serenity—whimsical in voice and motion. “Of Swiftcurrent Creek.”

He paused, nose lifting to trace the air of her scent. “What does a herbalist do?” Truly--the smallest conversation starter, Akavir regarded her, wondering how such a sardonic firecracker such as Silvertongue wound up with some of the most subdued and peaceful wolves he had ever met.