Bearclaw Valley Jakt

they had seen her, but found one another more intriguing than her diminutive self. 

first, bernadette was torn. between running to the hovel where her daughters were, or the opposite way, to misguide them if followed. the later would be selfless and maternal, but a part bitterly wished that her accursed, useless children not outlive her.

then, a small ear twisted when the wind shifted and brought her their scents - which meant nothing - and their words, which were intriguing.

their language, to be precise. her study of human deities, her desire to not have context lost in translation, led her to lessons in swedish from an immigrant's cat.

what these wolves spoke was either not exactly it, or the same language spoken with a dialect. words drifted to her -

worship

blessed

seer

- and again her heart beat faster, except this time it was with excitement.

my kind, the thought echoed, reverberating trough her skull as the beardog took a tentative step past the treeline. and another.

and soon strolled halfway to where they conversed.

she woofed to interject.