Now Eirwen is quick to wonder what Gjalla had lost in memory, and what she had recovered. Or perhaps her mind is in tact, and the white wolf is just one of many with addled memories.
Who will jog it? What will?
She pins her good ear as the night-pelt speaks again and invites her off the cresting mountain. First, she thinks to be offended at the offer, though she can’t see why. Gjalla is cut from obsidian, carries the edge of a blade within her and it is a trait that Eirwen admires.
Turning, she sighs, breath of hot air ghosts over her muzzle and follows.
“My name is Eirwen,” she says. An offering of peace, for names hold power.
Who will jog it? What will?
She pins her good ear as the night-pelt speaks again and invites her off the cresting mountain. First, she thinks to be offended at the offer, though she can’t see why. Gjalla is cut from obsidian, carries the edge of a blade within her and it is a trait that Eirwen admires.
Turning, she sighs, breath of hot air ghosts over her muzzle and follows.
“My name is Eirwen,” she says. An offering of peace, for names hold power.
![[Image: dkuvap9-a9472ba5-e026-4e5c-b139-9ed9cc398051.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/3JTSXtDC/dkuvap9-a9472ba5-e026-4e5c-b139-9ed9cc398051.png)
speaks common