Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

ORWYND
everyone who isn't me is an enemy

Orwynd’s nose wrinkled. “Sun burns?” He echoed. The man tried to think in what manner a wolf would be injured from the sun. True, in his younger years he made a gambling bet with a sparrow whether or not he could hold a gaze with the sun for a longer amount of time, but his eyes did not burn. The thought tumbled quickly from his head as the salve glazed his wound. That burned. The wolf winced and shook his head again hard as the dark-colored female approached him.

“Patch me up?” My, he seemed much like a parrot today. The wolf stretched out his legs to the ground and eventually came to a rest in the snow, angling his ear towards her. “Sure. Only if you have something in that bag that’ll give me a wicked scar.” He said through a chuckle. Bitches love scars. As he awaited the she-wolf to begin her treatment Orwynd stole another glance at her. She was a young pretty thing, albeit a little plain. She had rather striking eyes. The man gently breathed in her scent, embedding it into his subconscious. Imprinting. “What’s your name, girl?”

The wolf caught a glimpse of movement in the distance and let an irked growl slip through his lips. The damn birds that got him into this mess were dancing on the hillside in an almost mocking waltz. He would feast on one of them soon enough. “My name’s Orwynd.” The male said finally.