Let us return, for a moment, to a sad soaked bundle, held twice tight. The first grip looses, and deposits two passengers on solid ground. Collect all your things. Mind the gap. Ride again, soon! The second grip relents only that eyes may see what hands cannot. Are there tears? Does she breathe? Does she fear? Maybe. Possibly. Probably. The cloak intrudes. Were both of her arms not unquestionably occupied, Wolf would have already torn it to shreds. An anxious growl builds in her throat as she waits, and waits, waits for trembling arms to peel away the layers.

The cowl falls back, and Wolf falls into a dream of enchantment and cunning. A vision of fiery orange and creamy whites, of fur invitingly soft and glowing with color. A curiosity of pointed, fluffy ears and a precious dollop of black dotting a perfect nose. A promise of poise, power, and so much more, wrapped in limbs curving with lithe muscles. An eternity of shining emerald; stare, please, stare, lose yourself deeper and deeper and deeper in her, without hideous lenses to get in the way.

Wolf stares. Wolf waits.

Blink. And the dream is put aside. Back to waking. Back to gangly limbs and patchwork, speckled coat. Back to ill-kept and tangled fur. Back to spectacles perched on a snout all the wrong shapes. Back to a low rumble in Wolf’s chest, felt through paws, through cloak, filling her with unconditional approval. Back to lying weightless in a strength that could hold her forever. Back to a closing distance, and foreheads meeting, and one last, precious word spilling from Wolf’s lips.

And the name was

[i]”Jackdaw.”[/i]