Otatso Wetlands When I get low I prefer the cold

Though the wolf’s golden crown turned in his direction, she did not look upon him, her gaze lost as if blind. Qeorvik felt that this would not do, so he moved into her line of sight, holding himself tall and proud in an effort to determine if she was in fact sightless. He had no use for someone who could not see him – or tell him how handsome he was. She seemed to see him then, but her disoriented expression remained.

Er eitthvað að þér? he asked, unkind. You are... ruglaður? Ah, foggy in brain? It took him a moment to find the common word. Confused?