Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
At this hour, he should be returning to den in preparation for a long day of hunting. The night is still black and silent around them both, but he can clearly picture the svelte outline of Sabrina’s bulk moving past the rim of their hollowed out den. Would she be searching for him? It’s not hard to imagine that odd, split tail of hers flicking back and forth with a signature swish of irritation. No; he doubts it. The hellhound female wasn’t like Merida in that way.
The picture in his thoughts changes. Turns to the dark hours before dawn when he would slip past a forest of eternal autumn and into the apexed entrance of another den. In those memories he can see sharp, reflective eyes like wide almonds staring back and tainted with mock disapproval.
“You cry for the ghost of me.” Her once-mate mutters through glinting teeth. His square shoulders roll smoothly underneath a thick layer of gold-tinted fur, gone ruddy brown in the low light, when he plods forward on silent paws. “Don’t.” Is the only warning she’ll receive.
Merida, he thinks silently. The side of himself that seems more ‘horse’ and less ‘wolf’ is drawn out by her appearance, the smell of her lingering all around him, even the sight of her there - hunkered down into the brittle refuse of this ancient forest. That Crevan wants to sink into the ground with her and hold her prisoner between his forelegs. Maybe run a rough tongue across her smooth, reddish forehead and mingle their whiskers together.
He blinks.
“How long have you been back?”
@[Merida]