in a little green boat

*Orica* · 12-08-2016, 10:02 AM

Yes, someone had brought this one up well.

Orica couldn't help being reminded of the warriors of her own family. Of her grandmother espically, though she doubted saying those exact words aloud would imediately seem complimentary. Orica's father's mother was Clash - the part doberman, part timber wolf who was born wild and grew up fighting in pits for the entertainment of others more monstrous than she. The she-wolf had been a hulk - battle scared, abnoramlly large in the shoulders and thick in the fang - looking something like a bedtime story beast. And yet she'd been the sort to befriend any pup that came her way, and make snow prints of herself by rolling around in fresh powder. That was how she and Orica's grandfather met, actually. She'd always gone through life acting like she could be anyone's friend or anyone's enemy. "Manners cost a warrior nothing, and a fool, everything," Orica murmured. It was something the old lady had been known for saying.

Strange to think she was now at the age that Clash had been when Orica's father and littermates were born. Their family had fertility if nothing else.

As if hearing her very thoughts, the male wolf chuckled. Orica blinked and stared at him - honestly, after all the things she'd seen, a wolf who could read minds like tracks or scents wouldn't surprise her. He spoke with a lightness of heart that was infectious. His laughter had a unqie ring to it - maybe the result of the fangs, maybe just something of his own voice. Certainly worth listening to. She agreed whole heartedly with his statement, but she let her eyes and smile speak for her as she laid her muzzle on her paws and tipped her ears forward - an encouragement to go on. The male had more to say.

His estimation of himself was as open as it was honest. Orica liked a wolf that knew what they were made of. What they would and wouldn't take from others. His lifestyle was idealic in someways, independant in ways that only a handful of wolves would ever be by choice. It fit him. Orica couldn't say how exactly. She had some vague idea of him only being comfortable in a pack of sabor-toothed half-bears like himself. But he was inquiring after her now. "Oh I'd trade my freedom for family in a heartbeat, came the easy reply, her head still sunk on her paws - half turned to watch him with pleased, tired eyes. "For one thing, we don't all look like the direct descendants of war gods. There are as many bad wolves as there are good out there - how many winters do I look like I'd last on my own?" A sobering question, but asked simply enough. "And I have a pack wolf's heart. I feel better when I'm surrounded by those who have at least half a thought for my existence. I like to be somewhere I can feel I'm being of use." She shrugged. "I've wandered plenty. Sometimes with just a lover or a family, and traveling with the nomads was a freeing experience in alot of ways, but I appreciate stability. What little of it there is, these days." Not that she couldn't see his point, or that she hadn't enjoyed her time going from den to den - land to land. Making allies and enemies at every turn. Hunting things one day that she wouldn't have dreamed existed the night before. There was appeal to that - espically for a younger wolf. "As for orders-" she yawned mid sentence, apologizing with a wince and a downward flick of her ears "-never bothered me much. Thats the thing about being a healer you know - however big they are they all end up bleeding and prone at your feet anyway." The fluffy little she-wolf half chuckled with her eyes closed.

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