when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
The wolf-girl (perhaps she is more woman now as she enters the near-stage of adulthood) has finally made her way back into the stony and hilly landscape of Loess; her damp, black nostrils twitching curiously as she inhales scents both foreign and familiar, stale and fresh. Spring has brought the luscious scent of rabbit and other once-disappeared rodents, but Dayé’s appetite has been fully satisfied. Her muzzle (once a dusty cream rose) still remains painted with the deep rust brown of her most recent kill and even now she continues to savor its flavor with soft licks of her pink tongue across her lips. The buck left her stomach nearly bulging - a feast that she could not have dined on without help from a new friend, whose memory allows a soft growl of pleasure to murmur in her chest. The tiger easily had taken down the stag and though did not necessarily need Dayé’s assistance to do so, allowed the wolf to participate in the hunt.
The sound of her name draws Dayé to now walk with a bit more purpose, her once lazy and choppy trot now lengthening into an easy lope. The wolf recognizes the voice of her brother, whuffling gently as she uses her nose to separate his scent from the many that surround her, an excited wag of her tail seemingly propelling her forward.
It’s been awhile since she had seen him, but Dayé is not the one to worry. She comes and goes herself, like the tide, and would not expect her brother (or anyone) to be able to linger in one place for very long. Of course, it is the wolf’s instinct that pushes this understanding, and even though Wolfbane does not shed his skin for claws and fur, Dayé sees the same within him.
It only takes a few careful moments for the wolf to find him, her coffee-brown eyes sparkling gently as the familiar gold and deep blue of Wolfbane finally comes into sight. She does not slow her lope and instead shifts in the middle of her stride, the silent sound of paws suddenly turning into the steady thrum of dark hooves against earth. The wild woman comes to a halt beside him, sliding into a gentle prance before finally settling, though not before the pale honey-gold of her shoulder forcefully bounces against his own, the sunlight causing a shimmer of blue to flicker across her muscled skin. Ivory tresses (tangled and matted and muddied) plaster haphazardly across her face, for a moment masking the genuine excitement that has softened the edges of her sun-lit face.
“Wolfbane,” she murmurs with an impish grin on her pinkish lips, reaching out to brush at the corner of his mouth where the shining flash of his fangs draw her attention, nipping at the blue of his soft muzzle where her wolf would have licked admirably.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.
@[Wolfbane] <33333 my heart