![[Image: Maggie.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/Maggie.jpg)
Thorn Paw had no love of this barren place. No brethren stirred, no pups yipped, no kin howled joy of the hunt, and yet Wyldfyre still returned like a cub seeking the comforting smells of a firstden. The old wolf grumbled when he found the pup here, and brought it upon himself to rouse his creaking bones and check from time to time that his brother did not mire himself too deeply in solitude. Sometimes Thorn Paw deigned to accept the idiosyncrasies of humans, and on those occasions he tolerated such quiet moods and sat alongside, muzzle between his paws. Other times he nipped and cajoled until the young one stirred to the lure of the wolf dream.
But it was not Wyldefyre he discovered that day; instead a new scent flattened Thorn Paw’s ears to his skull, one of sweet summer waters and honeyed riverflower. Not even restless dreamers ever flickered in this desolate place, and she was no restless dreamer, this girl planted uninvited at the foot of the twisted one’s tomb. He knew that scent; cleaner than last he remembered it -- still smelling of sunlight, yet still the same.
The wolves shared memories of this one.
Wariness sprung Thorn Paw’s hackles, though whatever she had been once she was no longer. Her hands fluttered, her voice assuming a low and rhythmic cadence; a story of things that had no interest to wolves, though why she chose to tell it to the dead he did not know. He watched each visit, stalking on silent paws as she wandered and frolicked as far as the water. He could not fathom what she was doing here, nor what drew her to such seclusion, but he wished she would not stay.
Eventually he allowed his presence to become known. Curiosity wafted from her recognition, but no fear. For something so very ancient she seemed earnest as a pup in his first summer (and as oblivious). Eagerness met the rush of water against her toes; the wildness appeared to content her in a way that did not seem entirely what he expected of a human, though neither was she wolf. Had she been ensconced anywhere else in the dream, he might have observed such antics with vague amusement. As it was, she was simply unwelcome.
Thorn Paw shook the irritation from his coat. Wyldfyre might scent the evidence of a trespasser next he visited, but he did not need the distraction of discovering it living and breathing in the heart of his old home. The stubborn pup already debased to keeping a stinking dog as a companion, despite Thorn Paw’s abject horror. The search for a true pack continued meanwhile. It was the direction he should be looking.
But unfortunately it seemed the forgetful one would need further encouragement to find new territory.
Gold eyes glared down at the strange human, crumpled unaware by the twisted one’s stone. She smelled deeply of frustration in that moment, and this close he could detect the faint lingering of a hidden one’s touch, already fading. A grumble vibrated his throat. She did not flinch, which he found mildly insulting. An ear twitched annoyance. He scented no fear, but at least a steady respect -- which might have mollified him but for the fact she did not leave. Instead her legs drew up and she hugged them in her arms. Her bare toes scrunched in the grass. She spoke knowing she would not understand any answer he gave, should he even choose to give one. And she deigned to bring attention to the abhorrent twisted one looming above.
She was right. This was not a suitable den for any wolf. But he did not appreciate the question from a human.
But it was not Wyldefyre he discovered that day; instead a new scent flattened Thorn Paw’s ears to his skull, one of sweet summer waters and honeyed riverflower. Not even restless dreamers ever flickered in this desolate place, and she was no restless dreamer, this girl planted uninvited at the foot of the twisted one’s tomb. He knew that scent; cleaner than last he remembered it -- still smelling of sunlight, yet still the same.
The wolves shared memories of this one.
Wariness sprung Thorn Paw’s hackles, though whatever she had been once she was no longer. Her hands fluttered, her voice assuming a low and rhythmic cadence; a story of things that had no interest to wolves, though why she chose to tell it to the dead he did not know. He watched each visit, stalking on silent paws as she wandered and frolicked as far as the water. He could not fathom what she was doing here, nor what drew her to such seclusion, but he wished she would not stay.
Eventually he allowed his presence to become known. Curiosity wafted from her recognition, but no fear. For something so very ancient she seemed earnest as a pup in his first summer (and as oblivious). Eagerness met the rush of water against her toes; the wildness appeared to content her in a way that did not seem entirely what he expected of a human, though neither was she wolf. Had she been ensconced anywhere else in the dream, he might have observed such antics with vague amusement. As it was, she was simply unwelcome.
Thorn Paw shook the irritation from his coat. Wyldfyre might scent the evidence of a trespasser next he visited, but he did not need the distraction of discovering it living and breathing in the heart of his old home. The stubborn pup already debased to keeping a stinking dog as a companion, despite Thorn Paw’s abject horror. The search for a true pack continued meanwhile. It was the direction he should be looking.
But unfortunately it seemed the forgetful one would need further encouragement to find new territory.
Gold eyes glared down at the strange human, crumpled unaware by the twisted one’s stone. She smelled deeply of frustration in that moment, and this close he could detect the faint lingering of a hidden one’s touch, already fading. A grumble vibrated his throat. She did not flinch, which he found mildly insulting. An ear twitched annoyance. He scented no fear, but at least a steady respect -- which might have mollified him but for the fact she did not leave. Instead her legs drew up and she hugged them in her arms. Her bare toes scrunched in the grass. She spoke knowing she would not understand any answer he gave, should he even choose to give one. And she deigned to bring attention to the abhorrent twisted one looming above.
She was right. This was not a suitable den for any wolf. But he did not appreciate the question from a human.