Dragoncrest Cliffs don't bend over in the garden, granny, you know them taters got eyes

Mallaidh starts to count (or wait, rather, since who knows if wolves know basic mathematics) until she can’t hear running footsteps anymore. She gives them time to choose their hiding spot and hunker down. Idly, she thinks about how much she missed growing up with other puppies. Her littermates. They’ve scattered across the world, it seems, and those precious months of bonding will not come back to any of them, no matter how they try.

Perhaps taking a bit longer than intended, she shakes her head and turns, picking a random path. Her nose wrinkles a little, discerning which way to go and which scent to try and follow first. She trots along, picking up after Opalia’s scent first and weasels through the redwoods. At some point she loses it and distracts herself with another when Dacio’s passes next, and easily she locates it to a hollowed out log.

With a bit of good natured laughter and wag of her tail, she gives him a tag before she darts off, leaving him to search for herself and the others.

For a while they play, back and forth, and eventually once everyone gets a run through and hiding and seeking, they finish for the day.