Otatso Wetlands When I get low I prefer the cold

Qeorvik was dumbfounded at the girl’s next move. He stared where an older or simply wiser wolf might have snatched its arm back, out of her grasp. But he was just an adolescent, a child by many standards, and he was at a loss here. This had never happened before. She moved too slowly for him to feel endangered, and the motion was so odd that it jammed up the gears in his head, causing him to stall.

She now held his foreleg gently between her teeth, and they both stood there for an awkwardly long pause. Hvað er þetta? Qeorvik frowned. You making bad times? He snatched his leg out of her mouth. What you doing? he demanded, thoroughly confused.