Footfalls were usually easy to detect against any material. That was the one way she could tell when one approached—the rhythmic thrum of their feet pressing into the earth.

Yet, now, as the torrential rain danced along the forest floor with a cacophonous pitter-patter, she could not hear the stranger. Not until his soft voice rang out into the woods, mild in tone and temper. Citlali's ears sprang up, her head rose within a heartbeat. Pale eyes skittered over the ground innately, though it did nothing to help pinpoint where this voice had called out from.

A pale paw braced itself against the sodden ground, prepared to rise at a moment's notice. No, not injured, perhaps, save for a few bruises she'd collected from stumbling about. I'm alright. I don't need any herbs. She drew in a quiet breath, muscles still tense.

There was no ill intent in the sire's voice. That much, she could trust—yet, deep down, there remained the deep-seated worry of ulterior motives. Citlali was vulnerable—always. Wherever she may be, whoever may be around her, there will always be the opportunity for the cruel to grasp her throat with their teeth. There would be nothing she could do to avoid it.

The wolfdog's limbs pressed into the ground, and slowly, she rose. Her tail was taut, coiled over her hips, and whisking by her hocks with worry.