Rusty, Burrowing Sticks of Old

A bark of greeting escaped him as he lurched forward to approach the she-wolf. The boy only made it a few paces before he remembered his find, however, and he turned sharply back. He bent to grasp the old rifle barrel in his teeth and jerked his head back and forth until it was freed from the dirt. A portion of it had broken off underground, but he paid this no mind. With the thing secured in his jaws he proudly trotted over to meet his company. He held his head high, nearly prancing as he went.

Arató dropped his loot upon reaching the tank, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth as he tried to spit out the bits of dirt and rust which had come with it. He looked up at the lass then, marveling at the illusion of her coat. It was almost as if she were wearing her bones on the outside. The whole of her appeal seemed grim and unearthly. Yet this only fascinated the boy. “Interesting things indeed,” he hummed, “Interesting things and interesting company, baroness of bones”. He stood up to place his forepaws on the side of the tank and stretched his nose to test her scent. She smelled like dirt and hints of old flesh, but unmistakably canine. It was also hard to ignore the other scents lingering on her. She was one of a pack.