Wapun Meadow cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

There was a stretch of long moments between them presumably as Sif decided whether she wished to put that faith in him or not. Understandably, it was a lot of faith to put on a stranger whom could only give her his word at the moment. A stranger who could not even take her to the pack he temporarily calls his home. It was a shame, he thinks, because he would have stayed in Easthollow: he would have aided in bolstering their numbers if they could have just kept their noses to themselves and not poked and prodded them all in his business. Wardruna watches with his functioning eye as her fur begins to gradually deflate and she lets out a simple ‘okay’ accompanied by a dip of her head. “Okay.” Wardruna parrots the word back to her with a grin: a strange mixture of what he assumes is happiness and relief washes over him. For a small moment Wardruna isn’t sure what to do either but he wills his long legs to move, to take him closer to her. His steps are slow and cautious. He is ready to stop at the first sign of her discomfort. Wardruna intends to close the distance between them: to touch his nose to her muzzle, to her withers and to snake his body along the length of hers to mix their scents — but whether he goes through with the action or not depends solely upon if Sif allows it.

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