Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

ORWYND
everyone who isn't me is an enemy

The man shrugged. “No, I haven’t. What a stroke of misfortune.” He pondered what that would look like, what it would feel like. Would afternoon strolls be out of the question? The wolf thought of his midday naps, basking in the sun, feeling the warmth seep past his skin into his very being. “I like the sun on my fur.” He mused aloud, watching the dark female sift through her possessions.

“Normally its the lessening of a scar that’s part of my profession.”

Orwynd chuckled. “Well then rub some dirt in it. I want to look like I fought off a bear.” He offered with a laugh, angling his head so that she had better access. The little wolf got to work, seemingly so focused she hadn’t heard his question. Orwynd smiled patiently and allowed her to work, priding himself that he was quite the ideal patient. He held still, didn’t squeal when her actions grew rougher as she cleaned out the grit from the wound. When she was finished the wolf flexed his ear, feeling the thick poultice caking the side of his head. Her instructions were clear, though he was sure he wouldn’t follow them. “To whom do I owe thanks?” Orwynd prompted again, bringing himself to his feet. The man shook out his fur, careful not to dislodge her hard work. “I’m Orwynd.”

Casting his eyes to the far hillside once more he saw the collection of fowl foraging through pale stalks of grass. “Hungry?” He asked with a nod towards the birds, taking a few steps away from the she-wolf. “It’s the least I can do.” Seriously, the man thought with the flick of his tail. The absolute least is all he would offer.