Prodigal
In many ways, Roman Armada had been baffled in her days. She'd long since grown accustomed to wolves randomly disappearing in her life and then returning. Nothing could have prepared her for the howl that rang through the pines.
Azalea Adravendi. Well I'll be damned, she thought.
She pulled herself sharply to her feet, pausing for a moment to gain her balance again, as her vision swam black. She was too fucking fat for this shit. Gods- these pups needed to be born. Shaking her head, to clear her vision she bounced forward, picking up an unsteady and very slow lope towards the borders. Her swollen stomach through off her balance at best, constantly making her feel like she'd fall over sideways and roll down a hill.
Finally she drew close, and as she came in sight of her- she also saw Sarka there. Roman slowed, willing to give the two a moment before emerging at Azalea's question. "That would be me." She spoke, as she approached the pair. Her tone was soft, far softer since Sarka was in presence and she didn't want to scare her. As she waddled to a halt, she eyed Azalea. "You need to see a healer." She remarked. Until now, her face had remained neutral- a carefully gaurded mask. "It's been a while, Azalea. What poor fool did you beat up on to hurt your damn leg?" At last a soft smile pulled at her jaws. "Shall I call for a healer?" She offered, unsure of the she-wolf's plans. Roman sank back heavily onto her haunches, giving her stomach another disgruntled look, before turning her gaze back to Azalea.
Greek Speak -- Roman Speak |