It didn’t take long for the sound of feet to catch up with him. Larkspur slowed as they did. Not long after a black and white girl was in his way. The scarred wolf wondered if she dyed her white fur to get such an effect. His own had grown out in patches, but sections still carried orange-yellow bleach marks. Misery had not been around to aid him in a long time. Age was turning him white quite well, though he believed the bird-shaped mark on his chest was aided by the can tah around his neck. He had, after all, been chosen by it.
The girl was lithe and thin, more feline in her movement then canine, and he lifted his ears to her voice. It was, in his opinion, lovely. Certainly as pretty as her red eyes. The color red was still so fascinating to him. Dropping to his haunches the hunter placed his prize between his white paws. His orange eyes focused on her face, but no other signs of a traditional greeting would come from him. Larkspur lacked experience in social graces and this showed. “Larkspur. Y’need something?” That peculiar accent still clung to his voice, as it would for the rest of his life. His deep, strong tone sounded almost barbaric next to her own.
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