Sequoia Coast born into cruelty and crooked form

His head tilted; how to answer this one. Bits and pieces once again reached him, though he understood the first of what she said distinctly. Who? It was, however, not an easy question to answer. Solpallur hadn’t learned the wolf’s name, but he could at least give her a description… or at least he could try.

“Fölur úlfur, brúnt hár hér og þar,” he said without thinking, only to contort his ugly face into something uglier. Disgust, but more at himself than anything. “Ah, no name. Brown?” The words struggled to come off his tongue, and his expression remained unchanged for moments after.

“He brown,” he reiterated, as though that was enough. What else was there about that wolf? Aside from remembering the pack name, there was plenty Solpallur didn’t remember. Plenty had transpired in the time since he had encountered him, and the miles from the ridge were now long and riddled with gaps.

“Scars—” he said then with sudden recollect, almost excitably. “Wolf scars, teeth marks, no, claws.” He tried to show her then, touching his nose towards his shoulder. It was the wrong shoulder, but he didn’t know that nor entirely care.

His eyes were back on her then, watching intently. Unsettling, perhaps, in the way they were drawn to the moonlit ones of her own. Did she know who he meant? He could not immediately tell, but then again she held tightly to her reservations above all else even when she had him with his back to the roaring sea.