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► -tries to scrub the fail off.- thanks for all the patience, though, life has been fucking weird D:
► WC 523
Out of instinct he back-pedalled several steps as she moved forward to collect the kill, although his manor was simply calm and observant. Savina moved with a natural grace that reminded him strongly of his mother, and it compounded any burgeoning feelings of family and belonging. Barrett was an extremely fortunate youth--everywhere he'd gone in life he'd been welcomed warmly and wholeheartedly. He was vaguely aware that some kids didn't have as much luck with their own flesh and blood, so for him to feel so comfortable within minutes of showing up on Savina's doorstep was truly momentous--and it showed. His tail swung merrily as he kept pace several feet behind the Alpha female, and his pale yellow eyes were bright and alert as he looked around the pleasant territory that was now "home."
His bantering ceased when an old building that loomed in the distance progressively began to dominate the landscape. It seemed almost out of place, set amidst the meadows and forests, and yet the multitude of scents that weaved across the walkways belied its significance as a Mecca of sorts for the wolves of Crimson Dreams. He scooted along quickly behind her as she slipped through the door and his gaze wondered across the old cupboards and dishes before settling back on his kind hostess as she began to speak. "She seems pretty cool; never saw anyone like her. Alacrity, an African Wild Dog," he explained, speaking of Anselm's mate. Having been raised around dingos, coyotes, dogs, and all sorts of hybrids, sticking out in Barrett's mind was kind of hard to pull off--maybe the same could be said for Anselm, and maybe that was part of what drew him to her.
His expression sobered as she relayed news of the war, and he offered a sombre nod to show he took her warning seriously. While Barrett could hold his own in light scraps and he was an effective hunter, he knew he couldn't realistically hold a candle to anyone who was either (a) much more experienced than he was, and/or (b) consumed by such fury. It was incomprehensible to him--Maserati's boy through and through, he'd forever be a fan of the slogan "Make Love, Not War." And then again they turned to more light-hearted matters, and, though he appreciated her offer, something in the back of his mind begged him to settle in somewhere else where it would be easier to keep a low profile. How much of his shenanigans could he possibly get away with if the whole pack was right around the corner at all times?
"I'll be sure to check it out," he piped up, "and the rest of the land, too," he added carefully; polite, yet non-committal. "Is there anything I ought to be doing, then?" he wondered, his head tipping slightly to the left. He'd always had some amount of chores to do back home, whether they involved basic repairs, gathering food, or crafting weaponry and other tools. Although he was young, he was far from useless. Playing hard always felt better when he'd gotten the work done first, anyway.
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