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She was more snake than wolf, slithering on her belly in the snow, weak springtime moss, and curled brown leaves. Sverke watched her keenly as she moved away again. It wasn't the imperious glower of a power-maddened king, but the cunning patience of a wolf who waited for the herd to show him who was slowest, oldest, weakest.
A snake she may be, but he doubted she was venomous. He wasn't sure her fangs could prick all the way through his skin, not after the chase he'd enjoyed. Sverke let her writhe away, inch by inch. When she inevitably bolted again, their game could begin again. And again.
I am nobody, she rasped. Sverke hummed pleasantly, not dissatisfied with such an answer. He lowered his muzzle, taking a slow and meandering step closer to her. He was a growing boy, and growing increasingly curious about what he could say and do to manipulate the world into the palm of his figurative hands.
Not to me.He murmured, half-sweet, half-mocking. To him, she was something. A shadow it was fun to chase, like the feathers and bones his father used to bring to their den to playfight over and frolic with. Perhaps she was more. Perhaps she could be more. Sverke didn't think that far. He waited for her to get a second wind, and run again - or, better yet, unveil more of her secrets.
