The beettalion (seasonal)

Sedna had been out, taking a catalogue of local herbs she recognised the uses for when a howl went up asking for assistance. She recognised the scent as one of the Armada wolves, so naturally she would heed it. The Archer-Lyall had every intention of proving her worth as quickly as possible, and so she answered with a short call of her own, lengthening her stride in the direction of the other wolf. What met her eye should not have been surprising by now, yet somehow it was. The white woman was painted with a mosaic of orange and black splotches, very becoming, even if she wouldn’t say as much out loud. Her head hung comfortably in line with her spine as she approached, her steady waving tail only stuttering in its cadence when another wolf approached.

This one smelled different, and her head tipped ever so slightly in defence of her throat, eyes narrowing and a single lip lifting in warning. She wasn’t sure if her companion knew the other wolf, so she wouldn’t leap to the offensive straight away, but the set of her spine and the way her legs were splayed ever so slightly for balance would make it clear that she wasn’t in the mood to tolerate any funny business. Her skin still crawled with her blasted heat and her patience was thin, at least the thick scent of honey on the breeze served as a distraction. She licked her lips, offering a ghost of a grin to the lighter wolf. Worth it indeed.