Word Count → 378
A call rang out over d'Arte's realm, and unlike the last one she had answered to this one sounded more familiar with the pack. She wondered if this wasn't any random wanderer out there, if this might be someone calling on one of her pack mates as friend. Well, there was only one way to find out, and by the looks of things she was probably the closest to the call, anyway.
Orin had been perched by a tree somewhere in d'Arte's woods, using a pestle to grind down and smooth out something that once was the leaves of a tree. She had pummeled it into a nice green paste, but there was still a lot of elbow grease to happen before it would be ready to be made into pigment. She looked at it with a bit of worry. If she answered the call it might dry up and she could lose some of the vibrancy. Oh well, it's not like she could just ignore the visitor.
She packed up her things, putting a lid on the clay jar her supplies were in and placing the jar back into her satchel. The visitor might be getting impatient at this point, she thought to herself as she hurriedly picked up her pack and slung it crossed ways over her shoulder, then jogged off toward the call.
A short howl told the newcomer that she was on her way. A few moments later she emerged on the scene. Since she had been working, she was without her pink cloak, but the relentless bite of winter cold did nothing to phase the tundra wolf.
“Good morning,” she greeted the man as her eyes scanned his torn visage. She had never met him before, and was surprised to see the man with so many injuries. Of course, they were all healed now, but their story was forever written on his body. Her eyes skimmed over the missing arm, and she tried not to gasp so loud. She had once known a man with only one arm. The man whose story brought her here in the first place... Jac.
She tried to recover but still she was dazzled. She tripped on her words a bit. “H-ow can I help you?”
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