Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

Right—he had forgotten himself, knowing full and well that outside of Stjornuati, these wolves didn’t speak their tongue. His brow furrowed in a moment of aggravation, but it wasn’t wholly directed at the pale hunter. He grumbled, that low growl in his chest only there as a means of passage as he tangled with an uncooperative tongue that did not want to speak theirs.

“This one lets you have the coyote,” he managed out, the words stilted and suffering.

Yet his gaze did not waver from her, wondering if he could unsettle her further all the same. There was just the faintest trace of it in the gentle shift of muscle beneath her pelage, perhaps even in the features that contoured her face. She put up a good front but the stern lines of her face were unnecessary. He knew she was capable much in the way she knew he was, and through that he had a modicum of respect.

“You earn, you kill it,” he went on, pushing it with his nose. The corpse did little but roll in place; its foot shifted limply, almost comically as though to say he wanted to go with her too. Solpallur backed off then, stepping away with disinterest in a tail flick. An extension of trust to follow—he turned his back on both coyote and wolf, focusing on the remains of the elk to appraise it.