when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
The wolf freely prowls Loess with an inhibition that only comes from that of a predator - she is sturdy and sure in each step, the padding of her slender paws pressing firmly into the rock and stone and croppings of dying grasses. The cold air is brisk and frigid against the thickness of her dusty-rose fur, steam rising from shining black nostrils with each huff of a rugged exhale. She is large in this form, though there is no bulkiness in the way that she moves. She is lithe and limber, pressing herself tightly to protruding boulders with each turn around them or leaping over various sized rocks that riddle the familiar worn path of her Loessian home.
The wolf’s senses catch the scent of the male long before Dayé’s equine soul recognizes its presence. There is no hesitancy at the swift change of her direction, muddied paws stained brown that once were the creamiest of ivory now pulling the canine to scale up one of the nearby hills, nose to the ground. Her thick tail swishes idly behind her - uninterested, merely bored in her trek - as she nimbly leaps from rocky ledge to another softly sloping ledge, claws clicking on the moss-covered stone.
It is when a call rings out that the triangular wideness of her ears flick forward and her movement freezes, a single foreleg tucked beneath her step as she pauses. Her lips twitch curiously, lifting her long snout to sniff deeper in to the brisk fall air, pinpointing the source of the call not only with sound but with the wind on her side. Her ears slacken and fall against the slope of her skull as she lurches forward into a lope, climbing higher and no longer without purpose.
There are others that surround the tall grey man, but Dayé remains on the outskirts of the group. Her presence does not go by unnoticed, however, for she is sure the scent of the wolf is easily tasted amongst the equines that are littered before her. Dayé’s head is lowered, her shoulders protruding from behind her neck as she stalks the outer rim, the glistening brown of her eyes narrowing on the one called Arthas. Suspicion burns boldly in her irises, hackles of her muddied rose-colored coat rising on her nape. She stops her pacing, the tension palpable as the predator halts with peeling lips. Her jaws snap quickly in succession, an outward physical manifestation of her inner displeasure.
He spoke many words, but the intention is anything but unclear.
In one singular moment, tooth and claw fall away from the wolf and in its place stands a shimmering golden woman with the softest glint of turquoise blue rippling atop each corded muscle beneath her skin. Ivory locks tangled with debris frame her slender face that no longer is the wolf, yet somehow remains incredibly sinister.
“I will remain loyal to my brother. He is still the alpha.” Her voice is quiet yet unwavering and perhaps there is a throaty rumble of a growl that reverberates as the last word leaves her lips.
She could not sway her loyalty simply because of his absence.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.