While only a year younger than the brown wolf, Larkspur showed his age more readily. This was in part due to his dark fur, which was lightening not simply because of his own divine path. Such priorities in his life had made his path solitary. Few understood it. Fewer still could accept that he was doing what he believed right. The idea of wearing fur being barbaric made the burly wolf chuckle darkly. He offered no response on the matter, just now sensing that he was treading dangerous waters. Jefferson was unlike him, and unlike Haku—he would not understand. So few did.
A snort. “He’s young yet,” the orange eyed male offered grimly. “Needs to git some sense in his head, livin’ so close to coyotes.” Sharp, pronounced ki-OAT and with deep anger. A coyote had scarred his face, and they had made Haku mad with their war. He turned his head to look at the other wolf and wondered how it was he had survived with so many scars. This whole place made men weak. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, recognizing the approaching border for what it was. Jefferson’s valley smelled like cattle, as did he, and the borders were no different.
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