DUDE! HOLY CRAP YOU HAVE THE SAME BIRTHDAY AS ME, JUST TWO YEARS OLDER!
“Can’t say it wouldn’t be welcome!” Finn replied cheerfully, pausing in her routine to flash the new canine a grin and take stock. She had known his name even before he said it, though she had not yet clapped eyes on Mido till now. It had been mentioned here and there, mostly in relation to taining and scouting and other such things that came with a soldier’s duties. A warrior of Anathema, then. Finn’s pale eyes flickered faster as she all but scanned the wolf, the image committing itself to memory surer than a carving in stone.
“A pleasure then, Mido. I am Finn Fidh.” The she-wolf briefly bowed, her nose almost touching the floor, before backing up a few paces so that they might have equal room to move. As she did, she considered the particular advantages and difficulties of fighting a wolf in Optime form. She had never done it before. But it was never too late to practice. He had height on her, and reach, but it was doubtful he could run faster on just two legs, and she had him beat in agility. Even as these thoughts scrolled by in the myriad of ticker tapes that filled Finn’s brain, she dropped into a low-slung posture, prowling in a circuitously towards Mido.
Even though her body language proclaimed that she was now on the hunt, Finn’s eyes and face remained bright and cheerful. Even if this had been a real fight, a match for blood and bruises, it was doubtful her expression would change much. Even in the fiercest of battle Finn wore a smile. “So, where you from then, Mido, me lad?” The she-wolf called out conversationally. It was such a contrast, her voice light and cheery, her stance drawn with lines of suppressed violence, of muscles coiled and tensed to spring. That was Finn in a nutshell, really. Paradoxical.
The moment slowed, held for one breath, and then it shattered. In a blink Finn was pelting towards the luperci, accompanied by the rapid pitter-patter of claws skittering on stone. She came close, seemed about to leap, her legs gathering beneath her. But it was a diversion, and with a deceptively smooth looking twist she was careening off and around Mido’s left, seeking an opening. The she-wolf could move eyewateringly fast, an effect of the years spent walking, running and fighting almost constantly for three years of her life. She was tough as a rock, a testament aided by the many scars that decorated her head, legs, back and shoulders.
She had fought, she had been hurt, yes. But in Finn’s opinion, a warrior was not truly a warrior until he had been blooded. Her keen eyes had not marked any significant scars on Mido’s pelt, but Finn was not about to try and make one. Though she seemed out for blood, the slight jauntiness in her gait combined with the happy glint in her eye bespoke of simple enjoyment in the motions of the fight and the presence of another.