Northstar Vale set your soul at ease

Pipit could hardly contain her anxiously social whine as Magpie drew nearer. All she could see was lovely black fur kissed tenderly by swathes of a natural white not gathered by the snow. And her eyes— those beautiful, awful, heartbreaking eyes!— were brighter than any shade of new grass she had ever seen. Her heart swelled at the given sentiment, quite ready to return it, but in that moment the wind shifted and simultaneous to her company, her head snapped in the direction of wolf-scent that reached them.

It was a pack wolf, quite distant and rather disinterested by the sway of him. He seemed to move on without a second glance at them, and Pipit admired his confidence. It wasn't an unwillingness to accost them, for there was not a dredge of fear or anxiety in the way he trotted smoothly away; it was the walk of a wolf that knew he could destroy them both, but chose not to. She wondered in silence how powerful his pack was, though didn't feel like that was something hard to guess.

Magpie had edged closer, much more wary of the male than she was. The tawny bird pranced forward a little, hoping to be allowed at the woman's side, hoping further to place an encouraging brush of her muzzle against her freckled, downy shoulder. This close, she could scent miles and miles upon Magpie that she could never hope to see herself. She wanted to know every story she had, every path she had ever traveled, and every wolf she had ever met. Pipit sighed softly. "I don't think he minds us," came her feathery murmur. "Should we call out to him?"