Her body was already in motion and it all unfolded far too fast for her to react in opposition, instead the scene fell like this—from the snow a stranger burst, an explosion of motion that came down red, the hare squealing out, quickly hushed by the snap of the stranger’s jaws around its throat.
Burdock snorted, slowing to a clumsy stop just a few feet from the stranger, brows furrowing. The brute was accustomed to the nature of her past pack mates; cynical bastards who never spared a moment of peace, so it was with mild apprehension that Burdock watched the stranger, keeping a distance, head swinging low in a way that many could interpret she was some flavor of feral—lost to the wildest parts of her minds. At least, until she spoke.
”You caught it,” she said, voice low, rumbling. ”Why?” Burdock spoke in a way that made it clear that such a common tongue wasn’t her native dialect—putting forth a bit of effort to convey herself, utterly simplistic as she motioned at the hare between them. Any wolf of her old pack would’ve taken it. Why would a stranger behave differently?
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