The lithe Optime turned to greet him without batting an eyelash, and Slay offered him a small smile. This must be the brother that Flayra had been looking for, those moons ago. He was much more chatty than she had been back then.
"Cercelee is my mate. That's me, Slay," he confirmed, amused by the longer version of his name. Most wolves simply repeated the brief nickname he gave them, but occasionally they gave the verb a tense, making him sound like some kind of serial killer. Or of course, there were the mispronunciations that the puppies stumbled over: Sly, Sway-Sway, and the aforementioned Slayer. Perhaps it was his fault for choosing such an odd name when he left home... He hadn't expected others to take it so literally, but how could they not, when he never gave them his surname? Even Cer had been suspicious of him when they first met.
"It's good to hear that you two finally met up. When Flayra was my packmate, she was very determined to find you, even though she had no idea where to start looking." The arctic wolf settled onto his haunches, ignoring the protests of his stiff muscles. He had to get used to full mobility again; it had taken him too long to heal up from the battering he had received from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn't resist the yawn that followed, a slow and luxuriant croon that betrayed how tired he was. Being narcoleptic, he was always yawning, struggling to keep his mind afloat before it abruptly fell asleep. That condition was the reason it was taking him so long to heal... he simply could not stay awake.
"I'm not too concerned about the borders, although I should warn you, there are some unpleasant beasties roaming about these days. One of them gave me these-" he gestured towards the semi-healed slashes around his shoulders and face -
"-just because I looked at him the wrong way. Watch your back, mate."
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
