Finn nearly went cross-eyed when Svara shoved her face close. The scent of blood was stronger now, as the red wolf’s hot breath curled through Finn’s fur. She swallowed, still wearing the vaguely amused expression. When Svara started to slink around her, she nearly laughed. ”Turn me on?” Finn considered this for a moment, turning the thought over in her head with objective disinterest. ”No, it doesn’t.” Lie, lie, lie. Though it wasn’t so much the collar as it was Svara breathing in her ear. Those bright, golden eyes were so vicious and predatory, it was hard not to be interested. But Finn had become a master of hiding such feelings a long time ago. She remained blank, watching Svara with her single ear perked.
”They are your history, correct? Stories carved into flesh.” Said Finn. She resented the little girl comment. The gray wolf had never been a great judge of age, but she could tell that Svara was at least a couple months younger, if not more. She didn’t call it out though, preferring to let the wolf play her little game. Things were always more interesting when just observed, and not interfered with. ”At least, that’s what I think mine are. These scars are the places I’ve been to, the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve fought. And killed.” She added the last sentence offhandedly. Finn took no pleasure in killing, only fighting. But when it was life or death, there really wasn’t a choice.